


New Frontiers

by winklepickers



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! - All Media Types, Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Classical Music, Drama & Romance, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Growth, Humor, Reader-Insert, Romance, Slow Burn, a whole lotta friendship to go through first, but like, come for the fluff, it's also about being young and dumb and navigating your twenties, stay for the author's spicy takes on classical music in the comments, this story is about a romance but
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:53:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 101,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29340867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winklepickers/pseuds/winklepickers
Summary: If this were a movie you’d be able to see that all the paths in your life were leading to the same place - to the same person. The friends in common, the shared workplace, the mystery behind what you’ve come to realize is one of your most important friendships only while on the brink of losing it entirely.This is not a movie, and there is still absolutely no connection in your brain between your nerdy, uptight jackass of an online friend and the CEO of Kaiba Corporation. Why would there be?
Relationships: Kaiba Seto/Reader
Comments: 434
Kudos: 143





	1. Chapter One

You get back from string quartet rehearsal at eleven p.m.

It sucked. It completely, unequivocally sucked. The cellist couldn’t have stayed in tune if he’d had a gun to his head. There might as well have been a gun to his head, because your first violinist is a tyrannical dictator and everyone’s scared shitless of her. No one could agree on the bowings for the Schubert piece. You and the violist walked to the station together afterwards; you wanted to bitch to her about the first violinist, but you didn’t know her _quite_ well enough to know if she was pissed enough about the whole thing to respond in kind. Japan takes the whole _sempai-kouhai_ dynamic very seriously and you try very hard not to be an oblivious foreigner. So the two of you just walked in traumatized silence then said an awkward goodbye when her train came.

Your cat, Egg, doesn’t even bother coming to greet you at the door of your shitty studio apartment. The little jerk is too busy sleeping on top of the fridge.

You know you should go to bed. You have a shift at the coffee shop in the morning, and then you’ve got to cram practice like mad because this stupid gig is in less than a week.

Instead, you log on to Steam and boot up Civilization 6. MajorKusanagi896 is online. _Perfect_. Literally the only thing you want to do right now is antagonize his cities with a supremely annoying bombardment of missionaries. It’s the best stress relief.

He’s playing Overwatch. So lame. _Get on Civ,_ you message him.

 _No,_ he pings back immediately. _I’m playing with friends._

 _You’re just scared to take your next turn,_ you taunt. It works on him about 85% of the time, and this is no exception - you two are in the middle of a massive 1500-turn Marathon game, and last time you’d left things in the middle of a heated standoff.

 _Fuck you_ , he replies, and he’s logged on to Civilization 6 within ten minutes.

* * *

“Uuuuuggghhh,” you groan, resting your head against the espresso machine.

“If you didn’t stay up all night playing video games, you wouldn’t be tired for your morning shifts,” Jounouchi chirps, cheerfully mussing your hair as he passes.

You like Jounouchi Katsuya. Even though he’s a morning person. He’s probably a little too laidback to be working in an upscale coffee shop in the financial district, but he has such a charming way with the customers - and with his fellow staff - that your manager basically lets him get away with murder. No one can even hold it against him. He’s just too damn likeable.

“Jounouchi-kun,” Sanada says. “Jounouchi-kun, the blender broke again...”

“Yeah, lemme see what I can do.”

“Jounouchi-kun, you’re amazing!”  
  
“Heheh. Don’t you forget it.”

While Jounouchi does his thing - he has an uncanny knack with machinery, in the sense that when he gets frustrated and smacks it, it magically starts working again - Sanada wanders over to you to chat. Sanada is also a morning person.

“How was rehearsal last night?” she says. You think about telling the truth. Sanada looks up at you with those big doe eyes and sweet smile. You can’t bring yourself to burst her bubble.

“It was fine, Sanada-chan,” you lie through your teeth. “We’re all really enjoying the repertoire.”

No one’s enjoying the repertoire. The only thing everyone in the quartet agrees on is a mutual hatred of Schubert, and you can’t even manage to bond over it.

“Ee~” Sanada says in wonder, clasping her hands in front of her chest. “The life of a performing musician!”

Sanada Chiyo is working at the coffee shop while putting herself through a pre-law program at Tokyo University. You can’t fathom why she’s impressed by the fact that you voluntarily get together with other musicians several times a week to torture your instruments in painful disharmony and yell at each other about obscure sheet music notation markings.

_Thwack._

“Blender’s working!” Jounouchi hollers from behind you, as it starts back up again with a roar.

“Um, Jounouchi-kun,” Sanada says, her eyes fixated on something outside the coffee shop window. “ _Jounouchi-kun_ ,” she repeats, a little more insistently.

The little bell above the door jingles. You’re facing away from the entrance, so the first thing you notice is Jounouchi’s expression - it makes an alarmingly quick pivot from cheerful to downright murderous.

“Hn,” says a voice from behind you. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“I work here, asshole,” Jounouchi spits back. “What, you think I’m just behind the counter wearing an apron for shits and giggles?”

You turn around, alarmed, to get a look at the customer Jounouchi is sassing. It’s just...some guy. Some tall guy with brown hair and a shitty condescending expression on his face.

“Well, if you work here, then do your job and take my order,” asshole tall guy says.

“I’ll take care of it, Jounouchi-kun-” Sanada starts, but Jounouchi cuts her off.

“Oh, no,” he says, with a horribly forced tone of politeness, “it’s my _pleasure_.”

You can’t tell what the hell Jounouchi thinks he’s doing - by the way he’s glaring at the espresso machine, he may be trying to poison the coffee with just the force of his own hatred - but he makes the drink with painstaking care, while asshole tall guy just watches him with this profoundly douchey look on his face. You’re trying to wrap your head around what on earth their dynamic is when Jounouchi thrusts the cup of coffee over the counter.

“Here you go, fuckface,” he says, grinning maliciously. “Try not to choke on it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” asshole tall guy says nastily. “Take care, _Jounouchi_.”

“Fuck you!” Jounouchi yells out the door after him.

Thank God there are no other customers in the shop. Sanada still claps her hands over her mouth in horror. “ _Jounouchi-kun_ ,” she whispers reproachfully.

You look at Jounouchi, and then at the door. “Who was that?”

Sanada abruptly directs her shock from Jounouchi to you. “You don’t know who that is?”

“Old friend of mine,” Jounouchi says, cheerful demeanour back in full force. “Me and that guy go _way_ back.”

“That’s Kaiba Seto,” Sanada supplies. This is more helpful but only marginally.

“Who?”

“A rich dickhead with more money than common sense,” says Jounouchi.

“The CEO of one of Japan’s top gaming and technology companies,” says Sanada.

“ _Oh_ ,” you say. It’s clicking. “Kaiba Corporation. They do all those card games, right?”

Sanada nods her head enthusiastically. “That’s right! Their flagship product is Duel Monsters. It’s Jounouchi-kun’s dream to be a pro Duelist, right, Jounouchi-kun?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Jounouchi agrees. His eyes light up and he strikes a pose. “I got sponsored for a tournament in Kyoto next weekend-”

“If you have time to lean, you have time to clean!” your manager hollers from the back, so you never do get to hear more about exactly what a pro Duelist is or how Jounouchi can call that asshole his friend.

* * *

If your life were a movie, a chance encounter with a billionaire would have been transformative. He might’ve noticed your hair, or your smile, or your charming demeanour, and maybe he would’ve made excuses to keep coming back to your coffee shop, just to see you. Then maybe you would be the one to tame his ice-cold ways, and the two of you would’ve lived happily ever after. Or something.

Life isn’t a movie. Your hair was kinda greasy that day so you’d piled on the dry shampoo and knotted it back into a messy bun, and not the sexy kind. You hadn’t smiled at him. Your demeanour had been more confused and disoriented than charming as you watched Jounouchi make hate-espresso and then yell obscenities at a paying customer.

Kaiba Seto doesn’t come back to the coffee shop again. You forget about him. Your gig goes fine, then work dries up for a while - you take extra shifts at the coffee shop and some temp work to keep you going until wedding season, that magical time of year for florists, photographers, and freelance violinists alike.

You’re starting to make friends in Japan, which is nice. Your coffee shop coworkers, of course, although you don’t really hang out outside of work. You play in the pit orchestra for _The Nutcracker_ and find yourself aggressively befriended by one of the ballerinas - Mazaki - who invites you out with all her ballerina friends and very graciously does not comment on your dancing at the club. You hit it off with Matsuda and Kobayashi while on a temp assignment and go out for beers with them a couple times a month.

And, of course, there’s always good old MajorKusanagi896. You finish your marathon game of Civilization 6 with him and immediately start another one. He won - barely - and you plan to make him pay. Your win-loss record over the years is about even. He’s pretty good at strategy, but he _always_ goes for a Science victory, which makes him predictable.

Your phone buzzes in the middle of your shift at the coffee shop. You glance around. The manager is in the back, and you’re on shift with your two favourites - Jounouchi and Sanada - who would never rat you out. So you check your texts.

It’s Fujimori Kyouko - the music director of a small orchestra based in Minato. She’d also conducted the pit orchestra for _The Nutcracker_ , and that was apparently how she’d gotten your number.

“Is that a guy?” Jounouchi teases, hanging over your shoulder. He is _obsessed_ with finding you a boyfriend. He keeps trying to set you up with his weird Duel Monsters friends. You want no part of it. You are functionally married, both to your music and to your cat.

“No,” you say, tilting the phone screen towards him. “My vow of eternal chastity is intact.”

“Huh,” Jounouchi says, squinting at the phone screen. “I don’t get it.”

Sanada leans over your other shoulder. “Oh!” she says. “A job! Good for you!”

“ _Ohhh_.” Jounouchi reads the text again. “Cool. So you’re subbing in for another violin player?”

You nod.

“Are you going to take the job?” Sanada asks.

“I have to think about it,” you say, narrowing your eyes at the text. It’s come at a weird time - you’re practically overwhelmed right now with temp work that actually pays well, unlike this job, which is offering peanuts. But then again, it will be an easy gig - recording for a video game - and if you ace it, you could get an in as a regular substitute.

You’re still stewing on it when you log in to Steam at the end of the day and check if MajorKusanagi896 is online. You were making great inroads into his territory last time you played, and you really want to piss him off by converting his capital city to your religion. MajorKusanagi896 is a vocal and committed atheist and he _hates_ it when you pull off a Religion victory. That, of course, means you have to try as often as you can. Sometimes you can rile him up enough that he makes stupid mistakes and loses.

As you send holy warriors flooding into his capital city, he sends you a message: _Why the hell are you so aggressive_

You think about that. _The point of the game is to win, dumbass_ , you reply. You hit ‘send,’ and then you type another one: _I’m stressed :(_

He types back one word: _Pathetic_

Then he murders all of your holy warriors, and goes out of his way to sink a few of your ships for absolutely no reason.

You decide to take the job. You pledged to spend your life making music, damn it. If low pay were something that really offended you, you should’ve stayed the hell away from the performing arts.

* * *

You accept Fujimori’s offer, and she reacts with the kind of polite enthusiasm that you’ve learned can mean absolutely anything in Japan. She could be genuinely thrilled to have you on board, or she could be kicking herself that the idiot from the pit orchestra was the only one available.

You try your hardest not to look like the idiot from the pit orchestra. You break out your nicest button-down and non-holey shoes for the occasion, even though it’s just a recording and everyone dresses like crap for those.

This turns out to be a good decision, as you arrive at the address Fujimori sent out to all the musicians and notice that it is a _very_ fancy building. Like, exceedingly fancy. There are massive dragon statues out front, for god’s sake. You don’t feel _at ease_ as you enter the big shiny building, per se - the interior is much too polished and full of suity-type people for that - but you at least don’t feel out of place, especially not amongst a herd of fellow scruffy musicians that act as a buffer between you and the suits.

Everyone has to line up at the front desk to get fancy keycards that make liberal use of techie-sounding language: _Access code 307, Clearance level ORANGE,_ et cetera. You have possibly never been in a building this fancy before.

You glance at your keycard. It has a big KC logo embossed on the front.

Embossed. On a temporary keycard. For the love of god.

It dawns on you that you’re at Kaiba Corporation. For some reason that name rings a bell. You can’t remember why, but you do remember some kind of connection to games. Which makes sense, as you are here to record the score for a video game.

You were sent a score beforehand so that you could practice. This is not at all standard for film and game recordings; usually those are simple enough just to be sight-read, with no advance preparation. You wonder what the hell kind of gaming company not only has a state-of-the-art in-house recording studio instead of just using computer-generated MIDI instruments like most of the industry, but is also shelling out the extra to write these elaborate scores and send them out to the musicians all nicely bound.

It becomes clear when you step into the recording studio, with no audio equipment set up, that this is actually a _rehearsal_.

For a video game score. Will wonders never cease.

You vent about it later that night to MajorKusanagi896 while the two of you continue your escalating religious war, specifically because he is some kind of STEM guy and really does not give a shit about the arts. It’s kind of like complaining to brick wall, which is exactly what you need sometimes.

Tonight, though, he fails in this one simple job. In fact, he gets weirdly worked up about the whole thing.

_What’s wrong with actually rehearsing music? You know, what you’re paid to do as a musician?_

_I didn’t say there was anything wrong with it,_ you type back. _It’s just weird. Non-standard._

MajorKusanagi896’s reply pings back almost immediately. _Well, maybe it should be standard. Video games deserve to have nice music too. You’re always complaining about games that half-ass their music._

This is true. You bitch about this to him all the time. You weren’t aware he had absorbed any of it.

 _It’s just_ , you type back, _the shitty pay for recording gigs doesn’t really factor in the time it takes to learn and practice the piece._

 _Then negotiate a raise,_ comes the terse reply. _Where are you recording, anyways?_

You take a moment to laugh out loud at the concept of negotiating a raise as a substitute player on a recording gig, then you type back: _KaibaCorp. Are you familiar with their stuff?_

MajorKusanagi896 abruptly signs off, and doesn’t come back online.

* * *

You feel strangely upset about the whole thing, and the feeling persists well into your coffee-shop shift the next morning. You’re taken off-guard, for the most part. You’ve been playing games with this guy for years, hurling all sorts of friendly insults back and forth - the guy is tetchy as hell, but you didn’t even know it was possible to _actually_ offend him, and now you’ve gone and done it and you have no idea how.

Sanada notices your low mood, even though you’re trying your hardest to act like a chipper customer service automaton. It’s a combination of Sanada being a naturally vey kind and sensitive person, and you having the kind of face that broadcasts your every thought like a flashing neon sign.

“Come on,” Sanada cajoles. “What’s going on?”

“I had...a fight? With a friend?”

Sanada laughs. “You don’t sound certain about either of those things.”

You try to explain MajorKusanagi896 to her - the way you’d met playing some shitty startup MMO, had a blast teaming up to gank unsuspecting low-level suckers, and then how you’d exchanged Steam handles when the MMO went belly-up. The two of you had casually started a round of the hottest new game - Civilization 6 - and had never really stopped playing, even long past the point when Civ 6 was hot or new by any definition.

“I don’t understand,” Sanada says, pursing her lips. “So...you’ve never met him? Or even spoken on him to the phone? Do you even know anything about him?”

Well, yes, you explain. You know lots of things about MajorKusanagi896. You know that he does some kind of nerd job for a living, because he’s always prattling on about schematics and circuits and shit like that. You know about his opinions on basically every current-gen CPU in existence, his absolute faith in an eventual robot uprising, and the fact that he’s really into the same nonsensical card game Jounouchi likes. He also knows things about you. He knows that you are a violinist, he makes a point of remembering movies you like so that he can send you scathing critical reviews of them later, he enjoys it when you send pictures of your cat.

“He named my cat, actually,” you continue, even in the face of Sanada’s bewildered expression. “I sent him a picture of my cat when he was just a kitten, he said it was the worst-looking kitten he’d ever seen and that its face looked like scrambled eggs, so I named the cat Egg. It’s...” you trail off helplessly, gesturing. “Funny?”

“But...” Sanada pauses. “You don’t know his name.”

“No.”

“And you’ve never seen his face.”

“No.”

“She doesn’t need to!” Jounouchi bursts out. He’s been blatantly eavesdropping on the entire conversation, and is finally no longer able to contain his opinions. “Their bond through gaming is above and beyond stupid details like that!”

Jounouchi spouts some truly bizarre shit sometimes. You love him anyways. He’s so endearingly earnest about literally everything.

“I think it’s kinda special,” Jounouchi continues, clasping both your hands in his like you’re in a K-drama and he’s about to make a speech. You realize that he is totally about to make a speech. “These two friends have transcended everything...all the mundane details that drive people apart...to find a _true_ connection through their mutual passion for victory!”

You wouldn’t call it a passion for victory - in the end it doesn’t really matter to you who wins, as long as the game is fun and you manage to annoy the living shit out of your opponent - but his speech is actually pretty nice. There’s something touching about it.

“You’re always so weird after you compete in tournaments,” Sanada sighs.

That afternoon you have your _second_ rehearsal at KaibaCorp. Fujimori makes an announcement that the rate of pay has increased.

If this were a movie, this would be the point where you would’ve started to put it all together. But it’s not a movie, and there is absolutely no reason for you to connect those dots, so you don’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all are enjoying baby's first foray into romance fanfiction, although I'm not kidding when I say this is a slow burn. Would love to hear your thoughts <3


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a written buffer for this story and I don't wanna burn through it too fast, but I couldn't resist putting this chapter up a little sooner - you'll see why ;)

_Come online,_ you ping MajorKusanagi896.

He doesn’t answer.

You send him a picture of Egg yowling out the window. _He’s calling you. He misses you._

Nothing. It’s devastating. Pictures of Egg always get a reaction out of him.

You type, erase and re-type messages to him all week that you never end up sending. Sarcastic quippy one-liners. Genuine queries after his well-being. Angry messages asking how he could be such a dick and just ghost you for no reason. Even one long message rambling about how important his friendship is to you that makes you cringe so hard when you re-read it that you delete it then actually shut your computer down and don’t touch it for the rest of the night.

Finally he messages you out of absolutely nowhere with a baffling one-liner: _What are you doing in Japan?_

You debate whether or not to answer him. Part of you thinks you should make him wait exactly as long as he made you wait, down to the second. But a bigger part of you is _really fucking curious_ about what his deal is. You settle on waiting a very reasonable four hours before typing your response.

 _I live here_ , you type back.

It feels weird. You two _never_ talk about details like this - details that really ground either of you in real life.

He doesn’t respond for a while, so you nudge him. _Why?_

 _But you speak English_ , he finally replies, ignoring your question.

What the fuck is up with this dude? _I moved here last year,_ you respond. _Where do you live?_

You’re not entirely sure why you asked. It just feels wrong being the only one dragged out of the entirely virtual sphere of your friendship and grounded in an actual physical place. You’re also kind of curious to see if he responds.

He does.

_Japan._

* * *

“Well, now the whole thing is fucked up,” you complain to Sanada, who kindly listens with mildly-befuddled patience whenever you talk about MajorKusanagi896. “We know we live in the same place. It’s gross. What if one of us suggests meeting up?”

“Um...” Sanada chews her lip. “If you don’t want to meet up, you don’t have to?”

“That’s not the point,” you say despairingly, pumping sweetener into someone’s drink with a little more force than necessary. You thrust the drink at the customer dramatically. “The point is that it was never even in the realm of _possibility_ before. Now it is, and it’s just...out there.”

“So you two never even talked about what country you live in?”

“No,” you groan. “We always talk in English. His English is perfect. I always just kind of imagined he was a proficiently bilingual German. Who is he, if he’s not German? Do I even know this guy anymore?”

“No,” Sanada points out reasonably, “and you never did in the first place.”

Thankfully, MajorKusanagi896 seems just as disinclined to act on the new forbidden knowledge as you are. He wordlessly wraps up your current round of Civ 6 and starts another one. You play him in silence for a week, no chat messages punctuating the raids and alliances and trade deals. You realize that he’s the only person you play this game with. All your other friends have moved on to greener gaming pastures. You wonder if you’re his Civ 6 buddy, too, or if he has a lot of Civ 6 buddies and now he’s just going to drop you from the rotation because you accidentally pissed him off by being a lazy musician.

The contract at KaibaCorp ends. Two weeks later, another one crops up, for a different game - another KaibaCorp title. The pay is even further increased from the last time. You take the job, of course.

“The CEO’s taken a special interest in this title,” you overhear one of the suits telling Fujimori during a lunch break. “He was saying he might come and observe from the soundbooth.”

“Kaiba-shachou is welcome to observe,” Fujimori says graciously.

You disagree. What kind of CEO has nothing better to do than looming over musicians? Is he going to start giving suggestions? Criticizing? Ugh.

The CEO does neither of those things. You never even see him. If he’s come to observe, he’s done so very discreetly, and has left the soundbooth by the time rehearsal is over.

Yes. This is another multi-rehearsal video game project. You have to admit, you actually kind of like the score for this one; it’s so dramatic and epic that it wouldn’t be out of place in a Lord of the Rings film. You’re a sucker for drama in music, possibly to compensate for the total lack of drama in your actual life.

“So...KaibaCorp must have a lot of money to throw at this project, huh,” you say awkwardly to the violinist in the next chair as you both pack up your instruments. You’re not sure if you’re breaching one of Japan’s thousand hidden etiquette rules and social hierarchies, but you’re so curious about this place that it doesn’t even matter.

“I guess so,” he says, looking as puzzled as you do. “It’s a recent thing. Until the past couple of years, KaibaCorp just used MIDI like everyone else. Apparently the CEO himself took an interest in classical music and insisted that the games use real musicians as often as possible.”

You smile at that. “No way! That’s kind of nice, a techie with an appreciation for the arts.”

“Nah,” says a passing bassist. “That guy is a real piece of work. He could just fire us all tomorrow for no reason.”

“Ignore her,” the violinist whispers after she’s gone. “Her aunt got fired from KC’s accounting department a couple months ago. She’s still bitter.”

“Is the CEO really a piece of work?” you whisper back.

“Yes,” says the other violinist, “but a piece of work who likes orchestral music enough to hire us _and_ pay us decently.”

Point taken.

* * *

You can’t talk to MajorKusanagi896 about work anymore, obviously, which is way more disappointing than you thought it would be. He’s brusque and dismissive enough that talking to him about your life can feel like writing in a very sarcastic diary, but he also does listen in his own way, occasionally offering advice that’s rude and direct but insightful. You wonder what it means about you that you miss his difficult, caustic brand of camaraderie.

“Oh, you’re doing a gig at KaibaCorp?” Mazaki says, taking a sip of her drink. The two of you are in the awkward stage of friendship where you want to get to know each other one-on-one, so you’re not just going out in groups anymore, but that means a disorienting transition from clubbing to small talk. It’s fine. You like having friends in the arts, who understand your weird schedule and need to beg off things constantly to practice.

“Uh huh.” You poke at your edamame. “It’s kind of unusual.” You explain the job to Mazaki in the vague hope that as a fellow artist, she’ll understand, rather than getting her undies in a bundle for no reason like _someone_ you know.

Mazaki is nodding along, but she doesn’t seem surprised. “Oh, yes,” she says, “when Kaiba-kun gets a weird idea into his head, there’s no one alive who can stop him from realizing it. Except his brother, of course.”

You blink, not sure you heard right. Kaiba... _kun..._?

Mazaki laughs at your expression. “I know him. We went to high school together.”

“You’re kidding,” you say.

“Nope.”

Something about this clicks in your mind, and you suddenly remember that extremely weird interaction in the coffee shop months ago. “You know, a coworker of mine is apparently old friends with him, too. Maybe you know him. Jounouchi Katsuya?”

Mazaki exclaims with delight. “You work at the same coffee shop as Jou?”

So that’s a yes, then. You and Mazaki lose the thread of KaibaCorp’s CEO as you chatter on about Jounouchi, his recent tournament victory, and Mazaki’s long and interesting history with the guy. You also find out that Jounouchi has a boyfriend, which explains why he’s always trying to set you up; people in happy couples always want to share the love and see people as happy as they are. It’s more sweet than it is annoying, especially now that you know Jounouchi doesn’t just feel sorry for your spinsterish self.

When you get home, you play with Egg for a while. He likes to play fetch, because he often forgets that he is a cat, not a dog. Once he’s signaled to you that the game is over by absconding with his fetch toy and never returning, you sit down at your computer and boot up Steam.

You’re doing this a lot, recently. Checking for messages without any intent of actually playing anything.

It’s just all so bothersome. It’s not like you and MajorKusanagi896 haven’t gone days without talking before. You’re both busy people. Sometimes one or both of you will drop off the face of the earth for weeks. It never mattered before, because you always just knew you’d pick up again like you never left off.

Now things are weird and tense and you _don’t_ know that anymore, so every day you go without talking feels strangely precarious.

There is, in fact, a message waiting for you.

 _I work at KaibaCorp_ , is all he’s written.

Your stomach drops.

What the hell is this? Is he trying to suggest you meet up, or is he trying in his own way to explain why he’s been so squirrelly and evasive lately? Is he worried about the same things you are?

There are so many things you want to type back. _If we meet up will it ruin our friendship forever_ being the primary, _can we just forget all this and rewind to before I told you about that stupid recording_ being the secondary.

Instead you just reply, _Cool._ Then you stare in horror at what you’ve written, and in a spectacular show of cowardice shut down the computer and go to bed immediately so you don’t have to think about his response.

* * *

If this were a movie you’d be able to see that all the paths in your life were leading to the same place - to the same person. The friends in common, the shared workplace, the mystery behind what you’ve come to realize is one of your most important friendships only while on the brink of losing it entirely. Maybe you’d have some sleepless nights thinking it all over and putting the pieces together like a puzzle, or like one of those weird serial killer boards where everything is connected by red yarn. Then you would either confront your newfound knowledge or avoid it a while longer to create suspense or fill up some extra minutes of the movie’s runtime.

This is not a movie, and there is still absolutely no connection in your brain between your nerdy, uptight jackass of an online friend and the CEO of Kaiba Corporation. Why would there be?

So when you do actually meet Kaiba Seto, it doesn’t register in your brain as part of a pattern. It’s just a profoundly bizarre standalone incident.

You’re all packing up after recording when you’re informed that the CEO had actually been present the entire time, observing from the soundbooth. He doesn’t like what he’s heard. You’re going to have to record it again tomorrow. Fujimori can’t even really articulate the problems with the recording properly, which is generally what happens when executives who don’t know shit about orchestral music hand down criticisms from on high that are vague, unhelpful and uninformed. She thinks it was maybe that the middle section got a bit muddled and the horns need to tone it down to allow the strings section to shine. She isn’t certain.

You’re kind of put out, but you’re also grateful that KaibaCorp is going to pay you to come in again, so the feelings are profoundly mixed. Some of your colleagues are downright exasperated at this point that the orchestra is going through this much trouble for _video game music._ You feel oddly defensive about that. Why shouldn’t you try and make music for a video game be as good as it can possibly be?

(You know exactly why you’re feeling defensive about it. There’s no oddness in play.)

“Ah, fuck,” you mutter to yourself, just before turning in your keycard for the day. “My phone.”

You’d forgotten it on your seat. You say a quick goodbye to the other musicians trooping through the lobby and double back to the studio. Your phone is nowhere to be seen.

“Um, excuse me,” you say to the only other person in the room. You bow just in case it’s someone important. You’re learning that in Japan, it’s better to be safe than sorry. “I think I left my phone here. Have you seen it?”

You’re met with silence. You finish bowing, shift your violin case on your back, and look up. The other person in the room is tall with brown hair, wearing what looks like a hideously expensive suit.

The first thing your brain registers: _Oh, that’s Jounouchi’s asshole friend from the coffee shop._

The second thing your brain registers: _He’s holding my phone. Why is he holding my phone?_

The third thing your brain registers: _Jounouchi’s asshole friend is the CEO of KaibaCorp._

The CEO of KaibaCorp is holding your phone, and he looks extremely surprised to see you. Unjustifiably surprised. You wonder if he was trying to do something weird to your phone, and now you’ve busted him. That doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense, frankly.

It makes even less sense when he finally breaks his silence, only to say: “Is this your cat?”

Your cat is your lockscreen. Whatever, it’s not weird. You love that furry little dickhead. He’s the most important person in your life.

You don’t say any of that. You say, “Yes. His name is Egg.”

The CEO reacts in a way that you feel is rather disproportionate. He does not hand your phone back to you like a normal person. He instead sets it on a nearby music stand and then turns and fucking _books_ it out of the room. Like, almost at a half-jog. Apparently the world’s stupidest name for a cat has gravely offended him, if the look on his face before he left was any indication.

You’re left alone in the studio. It takes you a full five minutes to shake yourself out of your disoriented stupor, collect your phone, and leave.

* * *

The first person you talk to about this is Jounouchi. Not because they’re old friends and you’re looking for insight. Just because he happens to be working the same shift as you the next morning and you need to mention it to _someone_ or your brain will explode.

“And then he said, _is this your cat_.”

“What?” Jounouchi giggles.

“Yes! And he just...left. Extremely fast. He power-walked out of there.”

“That fucker power-walks everywhere. He only has one speed.”

“Okay,” you say, desperate for validation, “but it was _weird_ , right? Extremely bizarre?”

Jounouchi purses his lips. “I dunno,” he says slowly. “For someone in their right mind? Yes. For Kaiba? Who knows. All bets are off with that guy. He’s certifiable.”

You try Mazaki next - maybe she’ll have a more balanced outlook than Jounouchi.

Instead she shrugs, and says: “There’s no point in wondering why Kaiba-kun does the things he does. It’s a mystery that will remain forever in his head.”

You feel like you’re in crazy town. How do none of these people care that their billionaire CEO friend is also a creep who looks at stranger’s phones? Are they that desensitized?

MajorKusanagi896 is your last hope for a sane outlook. He works for the guy. Maybe he has similar stories. Or maybe letting him commiserate about work for a while will break him out of his weird funk, and the two of you can go back to normal.

 _Hey,_ you type. _How was work?_

You’ve asked him this question a million times before. He usually takes it as an invitation to dunk on the idiots he’s working with or bore you with incredibly technical explanations of coding that he knows you’ll never be able to follow.

You can see him typing for, like, a hundred years. It’s spiking your anxiety. You hate it - this used to be one of the people you were most comfortable talking to, and you never would have read anything into that before.

 _Fine,_ he says. _You?_

Not only did he take a hundred years to type two words, they’re _very strange_ words. He never says work was _fine_. If he gives you a one-word answer, it’s normally _stupid_ or _exasperating_ or just the word _fuck_.

He also never asks you how work went. He knows you don’t need an invitation to start rambling about Brahms or how your bow needs to be rehaired or the new etudes you’re working on.

 _It was okay_ , you type cautiously, your mind churning. _I met the CEO today. By accident. Do you know him well?_

 _Yes,_ MajorKusanagi896 replies. _What did you think of him?_

Weird question to ask, and you’re not entirely sure that _extremely strange_ is the correct answer here. Maybe MajorKusanagi896 is actually very fond of his boss, and you’re frankly terrified of making things even more awkward between the two of you, so you go with the most neutral response you can think of:

_He seems like someone who likes cats._

_Not particularly,_ MajorKusanagi896 replies, and before you can start analyzing _that_ he sends his entire army in to burn down your capital city.

 _Asshole,_ you type.

 _Scrub_ , he types back, and you feel your mood lift significantly.

* * *

The CEO shows up to observe again for the next recording. Everyone’s extremely stressed about it, because last time he had apparently not been pleased, and this guy seems to have a reputation for terrifying people. You look for him in the soundbooth this time before the recording starts.

“Shachou’s cute, isn’t he?” your stand partner says, elbowing you with a mischievous grin.

Is he? He’s distracted on his phone, so you take a second to really look at him, without filtering it through the lens of _Jounouchi’s rude friend_ or _that know-it-all executive judging the orchestra._

Yeah, he’s cute. Gorgeous bone structure, striking blue eyes, hair neatly ordered just so but in a kind of sexy, tousled way. Tall and like...built, in a way you wouldn’t expect the CEO of a gaming company to be. The realization sits oddly with you. This is, after all, the strange guy who was offended by your cat.

“No,” you say. “He’s weird.”

“Someone can be both at the same time,” one of the second violinists defends.

“That’s right,” your stand partner says, turning to make a kissy face at him. “There’s still hope for you, Shiraishi-kun~”

As the section descends into laughter, you take another peek. He’s looking directly at you. Glowering, in fact, even though there’s no way he heard you because he is currently enclosed in a soundproof booth.

Whatever. You’re not afraid of this guy. You smile and wave, and then Fujimori signals for you all to shut up and start tuning.

* * *

KaibaCorp keeps adding more rehearsals and additional recordings. Fujimori is getting stressed. The pay is great, but at this point you’re rehearsing more than a top-tier orchestra would, and it’s getting hard to schedule around everyone’s availabilty.

That’s right - another part of the latest KC contract is that all of the musicians must be present for each service. No substitutes allowed. Everyone had agreed because no one had expected it to be more than a day or two. And now, here you are, begging off a shift at the coffee shop because _another_ rehearsal has been added last-minute.

“I’m telling you,” you insist to Sanada, “this is...this is _not normal._ No one does this. KaibaCorp is literally hurling money into a flaming trashcan. Don’t video games have really tight profit margins?”

Sanada just takes you at your word for it - she’s kind like that - and agrees to swap shifts with you.

Someone at KaibaCorp - maybe this elusive rational Kaiba brother that Mazaki keeps mentioning - must have gotten through to whoever is running this circus of a game and pleaded with them to please stop burning money on the soundtrack, because finally the last recording is scheduled.

The CEO doesn’t show, for once. You’d sort of started getting used to him lurking in the soundbooth, sitting there with his arms folded and looking like he’d eaten a lemon.

“Man~” Shiraishi sighs, folding his arms behind his head as you all line up to turn in your keycards one last time. “I’m kinda gonna miss this place, you know?”

You look around at the gorgeous lobby, with one last longing glance towards the cafe. “Yeah,” you agree. You’re really going to miss those turkey and cranberry sandwiches.

“Maybe they’ll hire us again! For their next title,” Nakai says, swinging her flute case gently.

“I don’t think they’re working on any more this year,” Shiraishi replies. “I checked. I’m not really a gamer, but...”

“Hey,” Koizumi says under his breath. “Look who came to see us off.”

You catch a glimpse of a tall, familiar form walking away, melting into the crowds. “Huh?” you say.

“He was watching us,” Koizumi insists. “You know what? I bet he’s in love with one of the musicians.”

Nakai bursts out laughing, so hard she has to double over. “Can you imagine?” she giggles. “He’s probably just trying to make sure we don’t steal anything on the way out.”

That evening, when you get home, a message is waiting for you on your computer.

_Have coffee with me._

* * *

“What did you say?” Jounouchi demands, shaking your shoulders. He’s gotten heavily invested in your drama with MajorKusanagi896 after eavesdropping on several of your chats with Sanada.

“Nothing,” you moan, burying your face in your hands. “What if it ruins things?”

“You keep saying that,” Sanada says, “but I still don’t understand how seeing your friend of many years in person could ruin anything.”

“Well,” you scramble for words, trying to in vain to articulate it, “what if he’s really weird.”

“You already know he’s weird,” Jounouchi points out. “You seem to like that about him.”

“Okay,” you counter, “Even worse, what if he’s _not_ weird? What if he’s like, really charming in person?”

“From what you’ve described, I don’t think there’s any danger of that,” Sanada laughs.

“You don’t get it,” you say desperately. You need them to understand. “I’m already struggling with the fact that he’s not German. I can’t handle this.”

You text Mazaki to meet you for emergency drinks that night, because she’s sweet and empathetic but also very no-nonsense and you just feel like that will be helpful in bringing you out of your panic spiral.

“Just go,” she urges. “Meet him for coffee. The friendship is already changed, because he’s asked. If you say no it won’t put things back to how they were.”

She’s right, and you hate it. You feel a burning surge of resentment at him for changing things. You also understand that change had already been in motion way before this - basically the second you told him you had a gig at his place of work. So maybe it’s your fault, for accepting that stupid gig.

 _Sorry, didn’t see this :)_ you message him back that night. It’s bullshit. Neither of you ever apologizes for taking a long time to respond. _I’d love to. When?_

MajorKusanagi896 messages back with an extremely specific time and a specific coffee shop. This is annoying - the arrogant assumption that you’re just going to go along with what he wants - but it’s also pretty characteristic of him, and the familiarity is comforting enough that you don’t call him on his shit for once.

You show up at the coffee shop. You wait for forty-five minutes before you accept in your heart that he’s not coming. You linger for another two hours after that, listlessly stirring your untouched latte with one of those wooden stir sticks until the staff start coming around and pointedly asking if there’s anything else you need.

“He fucking _stood me up_ ,” you say to Jounouchi and Sanada the next day. Your dramatic pronouncement has exactly the effect you wanted; they both gasp in indignant horror, and rush to assure you that he’s an asshole and you should really let him have it.

You don’t feel comforted by this. You feel really sad.

You go home and conjure up some pathetic fallacy for yourself by practicing that Brahms excerpt that always brings you to tears, and then you cry for a while flat on your back on the floor like a jilted teenager while Egg uncaringly walks back and forth over your stomach in the course of his daily business.

“Egg,” you say, “what should I do?”

Egg has abandoned you entirely and is busy yowling with his face stuck under the refrigerator. You don’t know why. Maybe this is his way of empathizing, or maybe he sees a bug he can’t reach. Either way, it gives you courage. Egg is never afraid to communicate his feelings. In fact, he’s an over-communicator. You could take a page from his book.

 _Look,_ you type. _I’m not mad. I’m just really sad._

Before you can overthink it, you hit ‘send’, and start typing your next message.

_Even though we just bust each other’s balls all the time, you’re a really important friend to me. I didn’t realize that until things started getting weird between us. I wish we could rewind to before the weirdness but we can’t._

You hit ‘send’ again. Just putting it out there so you can’t weenie out in the middle.

_I want to keep being your friend in whatever way is comfortable for you. We don’t have to meet, but I want you to know that I already like you! You’re already my friend. Whatever you’re like in person isn’t going to change that._

You hit ‘send’ again. You’re on a roll. You’re in the middle of your next paragraph - a really great one, you think - when he replies, and throws you off course entirely.

_I highly doubt that._

You frown and erase the paragraph you were working on. _Why?_ You type back. _Aren’t you at least going to give me a chance to decide that for myself? What if you don’t like_ me _in person, did you ever think of that?_

 _I don’t like you in person,_ he responds.

This throws you for such a loop that you have to get up from the computer and wrangle a screaming Egg into your lap for moral support. What the fuck? What is he talking about?

 _What?_ is all you can manage.

 _You laugh too loud,_ he replies instantly. _You space out all the time and can’t pay attention in rehearsal to save your life. You own a beautiful expensive violin but you wear thrift-store clothing with holes in the shoes. Your priorities are fucked up._

 _That’s standard for musicians, asshole,_ you type back, even though that’s utterly beside the point. The experience of owning an instrument that’s worth ten times everything else in your possession is a universal sacred truth amongst musicians and you won’t have some STEMlord dissing it.

Then you stop and think about it for a second. He apparently works at KaibaCorp, but somehow knows that you space out in rehearsal. (Which you don’t actually do _that_ often, thank you very much.) Maybe he’s one of the sound techs. You wonder if you should be disturbed by the fact that he’s apparently been watching you and hasn’t come to introduce himself, but then you realize you’re not sure you wouldn’t have done the same if the positions were swapped.

He hasn’t responded yet, so you fire off another volley. _You’re nitpicking because you’re afraid to meet me face to face._

Implying that MajorKusanagi896 is afraid of something is basically a sure-fire tactic to goad him into doing said thing. He gets almost comically worked up at accusations of cowardice. So his next response is pretty much the last thing you would ever have expected:

_So what if I am?_

You don’t know what to say to that, so instead you send him a very specific time and a specific coffee shop. At least if the coward bails this time, you’ll be at your favourite hole-in-the-wall establishment and can drown your sorrows in the only good London Fog this side of the Pacific.

You don’t tell Jounouchi or Sanada or Mazaki about your bizarre power move. You know there’s pretty much no chance he’s going to show, and you’d rather process your humiliation in private this time. You arrive at the coffee shop early and dig your ancient brick of a laptop out of your backpack, in a pathetic bid to pretend that you’re here to actually work instead of just sitting there like a dope staring at the door. You get about two pages into a mind-numbing data entry assignment from the temp agency and then give up and stare at the door anyways.

Exactly at the specified meeting time - like, right down to the _second_ , not that you were counting - the door swings open.

You look at him.

He looks back at you.

You try not to make it apparent on your face that your brain is short-circuiting.

He sees through it, but sets his chin defiantly and power-walks over to your table, folding his arms and looming over you.

“Oh,” is all you can manage to say.

“ _Oh,_ indeed,” Kaiba Seto replies, and sits down at your table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O HO. THE PLOT MARCHES ONWARDS.
> 
> I've had so many online friends that I love for so many different reasons, and I hope I'm capturing the feeling well here of when a longtime relationship changes its parameters - maybe in a good way - but it's still a big change to adjust to and there's a lot of feelings about it.
> 
> P.S., if anyone's curious about Kaiba's screen name: 1 - of COURSE he's a Ghost in the Shell fan, and 2 - 896 are the first three numbers of the passcode printed on Blue Eyes White Dragon cards, because it's Kaiba and he just Can't Not.


	3. Chapter Three

Your first substantial in-person interaction with MajorKusanagi896 - Kaiba? Do you have to call him Kaiba now? - Anyways, it’s _brutally_ awkward.

“So, um,” you venture. “How are you?”

He gives you an incredulous look, like he can’t believe _that’s_ what you’re going with.

“I’d say it’s nice to meet you,” you forge on, even though you sort of want to sink into the floor and die, “but we already met, didn’t we?”

Silence.

“You know. When told you my cat’s name and you ran away.”

“I didn’t run.”

“You walked very fast. In the other direction.”

Silence.

“I thought you were maybe, um, offended. Because I named my cat something really stupid.”

Kaiba raises an eyebrow at that. You feel like you’re wilting under his glare, like a scrawny dandelion on a too-hot sidewalk.

“Ehehe, sorry,” you say sheepishly. “Technically _you_ named my cat something really stupid.”

And so on, and so forth. Despite your many pathetic attempts to make conversation, he just sits there, sipping his espresso and scowling.

That night you pester MajorKusanagi896 until he finally goes online and plays a few rounds with you, albeit in silence. You don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish - maybe you want to let him know that you don’t hold it against him, or that even if the whole IRL friendship doesn’t work out, you’ll always have Civ 6.

You don’t even know what exactly it is that you’re not holding against him. The fact that he’s some kind of rich and famous CEO? The reality that he’s even more of an asshole in person?

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. You just want your pal back.

At the end of the night MajorKusanagi896 invites you out for coffee again, and you don’t even hesitate before accepting.

* * *

“Hey, douchebag,” you say, sliding into the chair across from him with your chai latte in hand. His shoulders relax visibly.

“What the hell are you drinking?” he fires back. “Why don’t you just ask them to pour you a cup full of milk and sweetener and stick it in the microwave instead?”

For the first time, you feel like you’re actually talking to MajorKusanagi896, not some stranger impersonating him. You flip him off and take a swig of your latte.

“You’re nothing like I pictured,” he says, leaning back and downing his espresso like - well, like a shot. You know it’s technically called an espresso shot, but...who _does_ that?

“Neither are you,” you reply.

He has the gall to look offended. “What did you expect?”

“A German,” you say honestly.

His resting bitch-face doesn’t falter, except a tiny quirk at the corner of his lips. “What?”

“You heard me.” You shrug and take another sip of your latte. “How did you picture me?”

“A gremlin.”

“Fuck off.”

You realize with great relief that there’s no reason the two of you _actually_ have to go through all the awkward new-friend small talk. Once that clicks, things get easier. He doesn’t ask you why you moved here, you don’t ask him anything about running a company at - how old is he, anyways? He doesn’t look any older than you. You can’t tell if you’re imagining the relief on his face when you dismissively inform him you’d never heard of him before moving here. You spend the rest of the hour in animated debate about _Doom Eternal_ , which you feel was a masterpiece and he feels was an overly lore-focused cash grab.

It only occurs to you later that he was implying that you turned out to be nothing like a gremlin, which could have even been a compliment. You decide not to read into that too much.

The coffees don’t become a weekly thing - you both have way too much on the go for that - but when they do happen, they’re just natural, organic extensions of your online conversations. You debate about the Fermi paradox over pastries. He rants at length about new Korean import regulations that he personally feels are unwise and overly restrictive. You give him shit for being a megalomaniac capitalist pig and then fill him in on the latest gossip in the classical music world. He demands to see pictures of Egg every time.

“Hey,” you accuse, on one such occasion. “You said the CEO of KaibaCorp doesn’t particularly like cats.”

He scoffs and folds his arms. “I like Egg. That has nothing to do with how much I like other cats.”

Seeing each other in person is kind of fun, because now you’re privy to things like the embarrassed clearing of his throat when he insists that he doesn’t even like Egg _that_ much, because Egg is a terrible cat with an ugly face.

“But that’s _why_ you like Egg,” you inform him solemnly. “Your ugly face feels a kinship with his.”

He gives you a scandalized look, which is hilarious on its own, and then realizes a beat later that you’re joking and makes a sort of huffy _harrumph_ noise and turns his head away from you. Just like a cat. It’s so oddly endearing that you have to stuff a croissant into your face to avoid making a stupid comment.

“You’re disgusting,” he says snidely, and with that the moment has abruptly passed.

You’re starting to feel like this might actually work out. Maybe you can keep your friend - keep things as they were, the way you liked them - maybe there hasn’t been such a monumental shift in your relationship after all.

For some reason, you don’t tell anyone about MajorKusanagi896’s true identity. Your friends are dying for an update on the saga, so you tell them the most bare-bones version of the story you can get away with: You met him in person, he’s the exact same as he was online, and now you hang out occasionally. This is a boring enough conclusion to the story that no one presses you about it any further, other than asking you occasionally how your friend is doing.

You tell yourself it’s because MajorKusanagi896 - Kaiba, as you’re starting to think of him more and more frequently - is technically a public figure, and probably wouldn’t appreciate being outed as your weird online gaming friend. But it’s also because there’s a part of you that genuinely can’t reconcile MajorKusanagi896, your sarcastic, smart, picky, annoying friend, with Kaiba Seto, genius wunderkind tech billionaire, industry titan and subject of media fascination. It just doesn’t click.

“What do you _think_ of him, though?” Jounouchi presses after you explain the situation, throwing an arm around your shoulders and squishing his cheek against yours. “Is he cute? Huh?”

Jounouchi is an incurable flirt, even though he has a boyfriend, and also a hopeless romantic. He’s _so_ invested in you finding a happy ending. It’s so sweet and ridiculous that you can’t help but humour him, even though it’s not really a goal that factors into your life plan. So you think about his question for a moment.

Yes, obviously, Kaiba is attractive. You understand that on a logical level. So sue you, you’ve done some Googling. He gets his fair share of magazine covers. You’re sure he has fangirls lurking on whatever strange corner of the Internet idolizes tech industry businessmen. On the other hand, the person you have coffee with seems to bear little resemblance to magazine-Kaiba; the face is the same, but it’s so different in motion.

“No,” you decide. “He’s just...himself.”

“I see,” Jounouchi says easily. “Your gamer’s bond transcends human bullshit like attraction. Makes sense.” That actually doesn’t make sense, and you suspect it’s a recycled turn of phrase from one of his eccentric Duel Monsters friends, but you just nod and let it go. He unsquishes his cheek from yours, but keeps his arm around you, so that you’re trapped. “Well,” he says deviously, “if that whole thing is a no-go, I have a _really_ cute friend I bet you’ll like.”

“Jounouchi-kun-”

“He’s not a Duelist,” Jounouchi assures you, although he sounds a little put out.

“It’s not Duel Monsters I have a problem with,” you defend, “I just didn’t want to go out with the harpoon guy-”

“Oh,” Jounouchi says, brightening. “Well, he doesn’t have a harpoon either. Although, now I know it’s not _Duelists_ you’re against, I know this one girl-”

Ever since Jounouchi found out that you don’t have a particular gender preference, he’s gleefully expanded his search for your future significant other. “No, no, let’s have a look at your friend,” you sigh, and lean over the phone picture Jounouchi is trying to show you.

Jounouchi’s right. His friend is really cute. He’s got that sort of tough-guy look - wearing a leather bomber jacket and leaning against a motorcycle - but he has this very genuine, open smile. Kind of exactly your type, if you’re honest. Apparently he’s Mazaki’s friend, too, and that combined with not being a strange Duel Monsters person means that you’d probably have a good time hanging out with him.

You mean it when you say that you’re married to your music and your cat. Dating is not on your radar right now. But hey - it can’t hurt to meet this guy, have a nice dinner, then amicably go your separate ways. You tell Jounouchi that - in almost exactly those words - and he laughs like he thinks you’re joking and gives you the guy’s number.

You text him. He responds with complete surprise, and then the two of you commiserate over Jounouchi having the match-making tendencies of a nosy grandmother, and it’s just such a pleasant chat that you agree to have dinner anyways.

You don’t mention it to Kaiba. You tell yourself it’s because you wouldn’t have bothered mentioning it to MajorKusanagi896.

Honda is really, really nice. He’s even more attractive in person - he has this very confident way of holding himself, and is charmingly easy-going. He’s a mechanic and can hold a conversation on a wide variety of subjects. You have a lovely dinner, linger over drinks after, and then are relieved when he texts you the next day that he had a great time but is getting more friend-vibes from the whole situation, because those were the vibes you were getting too and you _really_ want to be his friend without any complicating emotional factors.

Then, and only then, do you casually say something to Kaiba.

 _I went on a date last night_ , you type.

The reply comes immediately. _With who?_

The arrogance. As if he just automatically knows everyone in Japan and will have the faintest idea of who you’re talking about.

 _Honda Hiroto_ , you text back, spitefully withholding any further clarification.

Kaiba does, in fact, turn out to know him. _You went on a date with Honda?_ Since it’s over chat, there’s no way to gauge his tone.

You’re reminded, uncomfortably, that Kaiba has known both Jounouchi and Mazaki since high school - which is where all three of them know Honda from. Most of the time you flat-out forget that you and Kaiba technically share a friend circle, possibly because you’ve never really mentioned to him that you know people in common.

Is that weird? Maybe now’s the time to tell him. It feels strange, but it feels even stranger to deliberately avoid telling him, so you go with the lesser of the two evils.

 _Yes_ , you reply. _Jounouchi-kun set us up._

_JOUNOUCHI?_

All-caps are very unusual for Kaiba, in keeping with his rigid self-imposed typing styleguide, which also forbids the use of emojis on principle. You think back to his and Jounouchi’s over-the-top vitriolic coffee shop encounter. Maybe you shouldn’t have mentioned it.

 _Well, yeah,_ you type back, resisting the urge to ask what the hell his problem is. _We work together in the same coffee shop._

Kaiba doesn’t respond for a while, instead single-mindedly focusing on raiding and burning your settlements in a way that you feel is a _touch_ overboard, considering that Queen Victoria’s forces are currently laying waste to his eastern borders and he really shouldn’t be wasting his militia on griefing you. You feel suddenly frustrated. Maybe things are getting too real for him, but if you’re going to be in-person friends, he’s going to have to face up and acknowledge the fact that you probably can’t keep your circles entirely separate.

 _Aren’t you going to ask how my date went?_ you needle him, even though he doesn’t ever bother asking questions like that and you usually just fill him in whether he likes it or not.

 _No_ , he replies immediately. _Everything I’ve ever learned about that gang of idiots has been against my will, and I intend to keep it that way._

 _Dude,_ you message back. _That’s mean. They’re nice people._

He ignores you, and busily ascends to new levels of pettiness by murdering two of your scouts.

 _Jounouchi is my favourite coworker,_ you continue mercilessly, even though in reality he’s tied with Sanada for top spot. You’re going to force Kaiba to acknowledge your mutual friends if it kills you. _I’m friends with Mazaki, too. We met while I was playing The Nutcracker and she’s really fun to hang out with. Did you know she’s up for a lead role in Swan Lake next fall? So talented._

Kaiba switches his tack and sends his Taoist missionaries into Moscow, which neither of you hold but you’ve made great progress in converting. He starts methodically beating back your Catholic stronghold. You’ve never seen him resort to religion to piss you off before, so you know you’re getting to him.

_And I had an awesome time with Honda. He’s a really good guy. We talked about it after and were getting more of a platonic vibe from each other, but that’s fine with me, because I think we’re going to be super great friends._

You feel like this last sentence is a mic drop. Kaiba seems to have a very dismissive attitude towards friendship in general, so you expect that the concept of you being _super great friends_ with one of _his_ friends will drive him completely up the wall.

It doesn’t. He abruptly abandons his Taoist missionaries and leaves them to die, then withdraws from his conflicts with your settlements in order to finally deal with Queen Victoria and drive her out of his territory for once and for all.

 _That’s nice_ , he replies finally, and then demands to know when you’re free for coffee next.

* * *

“Your Japanese is getting better,” Anzu compliments you. She’s insisted on a first-name basis. It makes you feel flattered, and also a little disturbed by how much Japan has gotten into your head, because now calling people by their first name feels kind of weirdly intimate.

“Huh?” you say, through a mouthful of gyoza.

“Not that it wasn’t good before!” Anzu insists, waving her hands in a conciliatory gesture. “You clearly studied a lot before coming here. You just sound so natural and fluent lately.”

You beam from the praise. Japanese is tricky as hell.

“Have you been taking classes or something?” Anzu wonders.

You think about that. You haven’t been taking classes, but you and Kaiba have been speaking in Japanese more often. He tends to throw you in the deep end, going on complicated sociopolitical or economics tangents, and just giving you a condescending look when you ask him to slow down a little. The idea that he’s possibly taken it upon himself to act as your de facto Japanese instructor kind of bothers you, but you can’t deny that it’s working.

You ask Kaiba about it on your next coffee date. “Are you trying to improve my Japanese?”

“What?” he says, looking both confused and mildly disgusted, which is pretty much his default facial expression.

You frown. “You’re just always talking about really complicated things and expecting me to follow along. Anzu-san said my Japanese is better lately. Are you doing that on purpose?”

“Why the fuck would I?” Kaiba scoffs. “We’ve spent years talking in your native language. Sometimes I want to speak in mine, and I’m not going to waste time dumbing it down for you.” He looks down his nose at you for a moment. “Especially not when I know you’re perfectly capable of keeping up.”

Well. _That_ almost sounded like a compliment.

Because he’s being shockingly nice today, you decide to reward him. You took a fantastic picture of Egg this morning, in which he is sitting on your favourite chair slumped over his own spread legs, looking exactly like a tiny drunk human man passed out in front of the ball game. You get up and drop back down into the seat next to Kaiba. He gives you a horrible look, which you cheerfully ignore.

“Check _this_ out,” you say, whipping out your phone and showing him the picture.

He can’t help it. The corners of his lips twitch up into a grin.

For a wild second, you wonder if you might have been too hasty when you told Jounouchi you didn’t think he was cute.

“That is the worst cat I’ve ever seen,” Kaiba says with open disdain. “Absolute fucking menace.”

You know that translated, this means _I love this cat and would die for him._

“Wanna meet him?” you blurt out.

There’s a sudden and all-encompassing silence. You want to melt into the floor and die. You’ve put Kaiba in an impossible position - you know for a _fact_ that he would love to meet Egg, but that doing so also means he will have to come to your house and behold the comparative squalor you live in. You wish you could pull the words right out of the air and stuff them back in your mouth.

“No,” Kaiba says gruffly after a moment, “but I’m sure my brother would like him. Are you free this Sunday? You can bring him to our apartment.”

Apartment. Huh. You’re surprised it’s not a mansion or something.

You shake your head to clear it. That is not the important thing. The important thing is that he has flipped the tables and invited you to _his_ house, and to meet his brother no less. This seems like way too big of a step. You’re not ready to think about MajorKusanagi896 being a person who lives in a _house_. It’s too real.

“What?” Kaiba says, misreading the gesture. “Have you not crate-trained your damned cat? I can send a driver for you.”

A driver. Your friend, who holds passionate opinions on _Mortal Kombat,_ has _drivers_.

“Uh, no, it’s okay,” you say, trying to collect yourself. “We can get there on our own. Egg is fine in his crate.” This is sort of true. Egg has eaten every cat leash you have ever bought and cannot be trusted in the great outdoors, but he will stay put in a crate for about twenty minutes without wreaking mass destruction if he has his favourite toy and if you talk to him non-stop the entire time like some kind of unpaid cat therapist.

“Don’t be stupid,” Kaiba insists. “I’m sending a driver. You are not allowed to take that cat on public transit.”

You can’t tell if he’s forbidding you for your own sake, for the cat’s sake, or because that’s actually a prefectural transit bylaw, but against your better judgment you agree. And that’s how you find yourself strapped into the backseat of some kind of disgustingly expensive Mercedes on a beautiful Sunday morning, with your yowling cat in a crate on your lap and a very stoic man in sunglasses driving the car.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you say awkwardly, after telling him your name.

Sunglasses Man doesn’t offer his name in return, but he does smile at you and incline his head respectfully.

Egg is really going at it, having an absolute howl-fest, because you are daring to talk to Sunglasses Man and not to him. He is consumed with the injustice. You don’t know what to do. If you let Egg howl the entire time, it will be a terrible imposition on Sunglasses Man. If you talk to Egg the entire time, it will probably be slightly less annoying, but will have the additional effect of making you look a little unhinged. What if unhinged people aren’t allowed in the Kaiba apartment? Is that an official security policy? Does talking to a cat like he’s a human therapy patient put you on the list of ‘people who are too unstable to be allowed into Kaiba Seto’s place of residence’?

You can’t stand it. You have to talk Egg down. You decide to do it in English, on the off-chance that Sunglasses Man doesn’t understand it. (He probably does. You just have a feeling that Sunglasses Man is well-educated.)

“Egg,” you say, “I understand that you’re feeling very ignored right now. Life is hard because you’re enclosed in a small space, and that’s distressing for you because you’d rather be screaming at the fridge or hiding in a different small space of your choosing.”

Egg lets out a much quieter howl in response.

“I know,” you say. “It’s really unfair of me. I didn’t even ask you if you wanted to meet MajorKusanagi896. I’ve been sharing pictures of you without your consent for years. That’s not even your fault, and now you’re paying the price.”

Egg settles down to chew on his toy and listen to you belabor your own faults as a cat mother. It’s his favourite topic of conversation and it calms him right down.

Sunglasses Man apparently decides that you doing a thirty-minute combination of therapy and Catholic-style penance with your cat does not disqualify you from being able to enter the Kaiba residence. He even very nicely opens the door for you before you’ve even finished unbuckling your seatbelt, and escorts both you and Egg into an unbelievably beautiful building. Kaiba turns out to have his very own elevator that goes directly to the top floor. You’re no longer as surprised by the fact that he lives in an apartment - or rather, a penthouse.

You had done your research before coming. You’d always known that MajorKusanagi896 had a brother - it was one of the very few aspects of his personal life that he allowed to slip into your conversations, and even then only occasionally - but you’ve now learned that Kaiba Mokuba is actually the Vice-President of Kaiba Corporation and has apparently been serving in that capacity since he was _nine_. (Not to mention that Kaiba himself took the title of President at fourteen. You try not to think about it. It makes your head hurt.)

By all accounts, Mokuba is extremely bright, creative, hard-working, and great with the press. Kaiba only ever does interviews with his younger brother at his side. You wonder if that’s Kaiba’s choice or if his PR department sends Mokuba along to babysit and make sure he doesn’t say anything excessively offensive. Either way, Kaiba Mokuba is a force to be reckoned with, and Kaiba very clearly treasures him above all else. The fact that Kaiba has invited you to meet his brother suddenly seems to carry significantly more weight.

Kaiba Mokuba turns out to be nothing like you expect. Now in his twenties, he’s still nowhere near as tall and imposing as his brother, but he radiates an aura of easy confidence that’s apparent the moment you step through the elevator doors and directly into the Kaiba penthouse’s entranceway.

“’Sup, nee-san,” he says casually, grinning and wrapping you in an easy hug before relieving you of Egg’s crate. “This must be the famous Egg. Actually, you’re both kind of famous around here.”

You know that nee-san is a perfectly respectful thing for a Japanese young adult to call someone slightly older, but Mokuba’s general speech patterns are so decidedly informal - bordering on rude, actually - that you wonder if he’s making some kind of implication about you and his brother or just fucking with your head. You decide to take it at face value.

“It’s nice you meet you, Kaiba-san,” you say, bowing and erring on the side of politeness as you give him your name.

“Ew,” he laughs, “Kaiba-san is what people call my brother. Just call me Mokuba.” He looks over his shoulder. “Nii-sama!” he bellows down the hall.

The elder Kaiba rounds the corner, and for some reason he looks surprised to see you. You wonder if it’s because you actually dressed yourself like a functional adult today in respect for how fancy his home was likely going to be. You’re equally surprised to see him dressed down - instead of his usual expensive tailored suit, he’s wearing a navy sweater with a light blue collared shirt underneath, fitted tan slacks, and the traditional Japanese house slippers. He looks disorientingly normal.

“Hello,” Kaiba says. This is also disorienting, because he literally never bothers with greetings. You give a nervous wave in response.

It’s all so awkward that you kind of hope Egg will resume his earlier freakout just to break the tension.

“Come on,” Mokuba complains. “Release the beast. He’s here to meet me, isn’t he?”

Mokuba has that rare talent - one that Jounouchi possesses in spades - to make people instantly feel comfortable. You laugh and lean over to undo the latch on Egg’s crate.

Egg is not a shy cat. He leaps out of the crate immediately and starts prancing around the Kaiba penthouse like he owns it, sniffing corners and leaping up onto different surfaces as if testing his jumping skills. You start to jog after him when he makes a beeline for parts unknown, because like every cat he is a force of chaos and you’re not exactly sure what he’ll do, but Kaiba grabs you gently by the elbow.

“Let him explore,” he says. It comes out really bossy, like an order, but the way he has your elbow cupped in his fingers is sort of confusing you and so you don’t feel up to the task of sassing him back.

“Um, but what if he-”

“Nii-sama and I really want Egg to like us,” Mokuba says gravely, “so he can destroy the whole apartment if it means he’ll be our friend.”

You notice that they have actually bought him a litterbox and set it up in the hallway. For one visit. For some reason this is just unspeakably endearing, and you feel a rush of warmth towards both of them.

Kaiba doesn’t let go of your elbow, and you both notice at the same time. Mokuba breaks up the awkwardness by looping his arm through your free one and pulling you towards the kitchen.

“You want something to eat?” he says. “I’ve heard you’re real big into tea. Me too. We can’t all be espresso addicts like my brother.”

The three of you pass the afternoon in conversation, seated around the kitchen island with drinks made by the Kaibas’ fancy appliances. It’s fun. Really fun. Kaiba is a little different around his brother - still a difficult asshole, but with slightly softer edges - and Mokuba fits seamlessly into just about any conversational topic you and Kaiba meander through. He’s clearly not as much of a committed STEM purist as Kaiba is, and actually has genuine and informed preferences when it comes to all genres of music. You discover a shared fondness for bluegrass.

Egg finishes his exploration of the penthouse and switches to twining around ankles and jumping from lap to lap. Kaiba looks a little forlorn whenever Egg abandons him, and he actually genuinely _smiles_ when Egg deigns to drape himself across Kaiba’s shoulders like a fat orange feather boa.

“Egg is in love with you,” you inform him matter-of-factly. “He only does that to people he’s obsessed with.”

Kaiba is very obviously trying not to look too pleased about that. “I only just met you, you clingy animal,” he says disdainfully to Egg. Egg yawns in his face.

Afternoon slips into evening. Mokuba asks you if you want to play Super Smash Bros. You agree easily and spend the evening fighting for your life. They’re both _excellent_ players. You don’t mind, and eventually just switch into senseless griefing via suicide attacks with Donkey Kong because it gets Kaiba really worked up about ‘broken game mechanics.’ Mokuba orders pizza. Egg walks all over everyone’s controllers because he is outraged that the glowing shiny box is now getting more attention than he is.

It’s so delightfully normal, in a way that brings a curious little ache to your chest. The kind of day you’d spend with longtime friends who _don’t_ live in a multimillion dollar penthouse. You feel downright shocked when you check your phone and realize it’s ten o’clock. You’ve been there nearly all day.

“I should get home,” you say, feeling oddly reluctant.

“Fine,” Kaiba says brusquely. “Let me call Isono.”

You wonder if that’s Sunglasses Man, or an entirely different man who maybe also wears sunglasses.

“We’ll drive you home,” Mokuba says, ignoring his brother. “Come on, Egg.” He motions for Egg to come with him as he goes off in search of the crate. Egg obediently trots along at his heels, once again forgetting that he is a cat and not a dog.

You feel stuck, because it’s really nice that they’re offering to drive you, but you would have kind of preferred Sunglasses Man because he is now acquainted with the concept of cat therapy. You say a little prayer that having three people he likes in the car will be enough for Egg to calm his shit on the way home.

Your prayer goes unanswered - Egg begins a long, mournful howl the second his crate enters the vehicle - and you know for a fact that both Kaiba brothers speak flawless English, so you can’t even be discreet. You have to just give up and explain the lengths you go to for your furry hellion.

“Aw, you just have to talk to him?” Mokuba says. He’s elected to sit in the back seat with you, which is cute but kind of makes it look like Kaiba is your chauffeur. “That’s really sweet. I can do that. Hey, Egg, you wanna know the difference between a series circuit and a parallel circuit?”

Egg does not want to know. He is in the depths of despair and analogue electronics mean nothing to him now.

“You have to kind of, um, validate him,” you say sheepishly, feeling the colour mount in your face. “Like...hey, Egg. I’m sorry your life is so hard. I really understand that you’re struggling at this difficult time, because you’re experiencing a very brief lapse in love and attention after spending all day being spoiled with the fanciest cat treats I’ve ever seen.”

Egg meows pitifully.

“That doesn’t sound like validating,” Kaiba says from the driver’s seat. “That sounds like mockery.”

“It’s fine,” you say. “He doesn’t understand passive-aggression.”

“Egg,” Mokuba says solemnly. “We all have our burdens to bear, but I have to admit that yours are particularly tragic. It’s very touching to watch your resilience in the face of adversity.”

Egg lets out one last mewl and then settles down to chew on his toy.

You and Mokuba alternate therapy-slash-penance duty for the ride home. You’ve never met anyone who will earnestly commit to cat therapy, with a straight face nonetheless. You kind of love him for it.

You catch a glimpse of Kaiba’s face in the rearview mirror just before the ride is over. You think he might be smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol Kaiba. We all know he's just an awkward under-socialized mess who can only communicate his feelings by murdering his friends in games.
> 
> Thank you all so much for the lovely comments and kudos. I actually wasn't even intending to post this fic and was just going to keep it to myself as a writing exercise - but the kind response has been so encouraging, so I'll keep writing and posting as much as I can! 
> 
> Happy valentines, all you wonderful humans (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter: [Pachelbel's Canon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jJRdLZyOU4w) (lol)

You find that you’re past the _making friends_ stage of your life in Japan and now you just... _have friends_.

You spend some mornings at Anzu’s house before your respective rehearsals, trying trendy new Instagram recipes in her cute little kitchen - often failing spectacularly and producing inedible garbage. Neither of you can cook worth shit, but it’s fun. You pass free afternoons here and there hanging out with Honda at his auto shop, messing around with the skateboard things they use to slide under cars and chatting idly about anything that comes to mind while he fixes stuff. You and Jounouchi go biking around the city sometimes. You meet his boyfriend, Yuugi, a game developer who works at KaibaCorp and who is one of the most adorable human beings you have ever laid eyes on. Occasionally you all hang out as a group.

You have other friends, too. You and Sanada have actually started hanging out outside of work every now and again, and Kobayashi and Matsuda remain your favourite drinking buddies.

And, of course, there’s your coffees with Kaiba - now supplemented by the occasional Sunday afternoon at his apartment. Sometimes you bring Egg and sometimes you don’t, just to make sure the Kaibas don’t only keep you around for your cat. (It becomes clear that they don’t.)

It’s nice. It’s nicer than you ever expected it to be. It’s not a first for you, exactly - you’re personable and tend to get along with people wherever you go - but since you move around so much, you usually you go into friendships with the attitude that you’re going to enjoy it while it lasts, with impermanence as a given. Lately you’re not thinking that way so much.

It’s nice but it also comes with a strange, uncomfortable feeling, because it’s something you’d never realized you wanted.

 _I wanna see your house_ , Mokuba texts out of the blue one day. He has insisted that you and Kaiba can’t just communicate through Steam, forced you to exchange numbers, and has taken the liberty of creating a group chat for all three of you. This is also nice.

 _No you don’t,_ you text back.

 _This Sunday,_ Kaiba texts cryptically. He could be saying anything about this Sunday, really, but you have to assume that he means he’s going to show up whether you like it or not. Mokuba doesn’t contest it. Both Kaiba brothers can be pushy in their own ways.

You feel a mounting apprehension as Sunday approaches. You didn’t have a good reason to say no, but you just...don’t invite people to your house, usually. It’s your space. Your sanctuary. Everything in your home is a reflection of you, and it feels unbelievably personal to just let someone see all that - especially someone who you’re barely used to as an actual physical entity.

There’s a part of you, too, that’s just worried about inviting a pair of billionaires into your crappy studio apartment. A penthouse apartment it ain’t. You also know for a fact that Kaiba is a dickhead and a snob who often makes rude comments about coffee that isn’t up to his standards - food that isn’t up to his standards - honestly, anything that isn’t up to his standards, which also happen to be impossibly high.

(Mokuba is kind of a snob, too, but in a really cute bratty way that you find yourself very inclined to forgive.)

You clean your apartment, then clean it again. You rearrange things. You water your many plants and give them each a stern talking-to, trying to motivate them to shape up and not look too droopy for the big day. You wash your guest pairs of house-slippers, even though they’ve seen literally no use since you moved here.

You wonder if your fake marble bust of Grover from the Muppets dressed as Charles Dickens is too esoteric of a house decoration. You decide that if they can’t handle Grover then they can’t handle you.

The buzzer sounds whilst you are giving Egg a very serious lecture on decorum and your expectations of him as a co-host. You give yourself a once-over in the mirror, wish you hadn’t, and then buzz them up.

“This,” Mokuba says, looking around with an enormous grin, “is the _best apartment ever_.”

You feel a little put out. You can’t tell if he’s making fun of you. Kaiba says nothing, just gives the place a once-over with an inscrutable expression. You feel even more put out.

Mokuba makes a beeline for the Grover statue, and Kaiba heads directly for Egg. You hover awkwardly near the door.

“I’d give you a tour,” you joke half-heartedly, “but...” you gesture around the studio apartment. It is one room. They have seen all there is to see, except the bathroom, which has possibly not been updated since the eighties.

While Kaiba finishes saying hello to Egg, Mokuba makes his way to your side and leans in close to your ear. “Hey,” he says quietly, his tone warm. “You know, we grew up in a shitty state-funded orphanage. A cute studio apartment isn’t going to shock us.” He pats you on the shoulder, then wanders away to look at one of the paintings on the wall.

You hadn’t known that, and the fact that Mokuba dropped it out there just like that to make you feel better about your tiny apartment is so touching that you feel sort of like you might cry.

Kaiba saves you from that fate. “What the hell is this supposed to be?” he says, frowning with his arms folded at a modern art sculpture on your bookshelf.

“A representation of eternal flame constructed as a Fibonacci spiral,” you say. “Come on. That’s a math thing. You should recognize it.”

“Whatever,” Kaiba says. “This is supposed to be art? Did you actually spend money on this?”

“It was a gift,” you say, rolling your eyes. “You uncultured Philistine.”

Most of the art in your apartment is gifted - when you spend a lot of time with artists, art tends to accumulate in your home of its own volition, forming a spontaneous and uncurated collection. Mokuba appreciates this aesthetic and asks you about the origins of each piece he lays eyes on. After you finish explaining a particularly bizarre and sort of grotesque painting from a friend in New York (it’s actually an abstract portrait of you, which you neglect to mention), you look over at Kaiba, who has been suspiciously silent during an absolutely prime opportunity to dunk on modern art.

He’s just standing there, staring at your violin, which is sitting innocuously in its case.

“What are you doing, Kaiba-kun?” you prompt.

Kaiba glances at you over his shoulder. He looks a little unsure, which is not something you think you’ve ever seen on his face before.

“Can I hold it?” he asks after a moment.

Usually when people are acquainted with a musician’s instrument, they will ask one of two things: to try it out, or for you to play it for them. They’re both very well-meaning requests, but the first depends on a musician trusting you to handle their most prized possession - upon which their livelihood depends - with the respect and care it deserves. The second is essentially asking someone to do their job on the spot for you, like if you walked up to an accountant with a sample tax return and asked them to file it right then and there as a demonstration of their abilities. You never begrudge people either of these requests, because you’re aware that not many people think of it that way.

You’ve only mentioned this musing to Kaiba once, years ago. He’s clearly remembered it. The fact that he seems nervous to even ask about holding your violin is such an odd combination of respectful, sweet and charming that there’s no way you can say no.

He holds the violin for about a minute, carefully turning it this way and that, and then places it very gently back into its case. Then he makes some asshole comment about Grover and the moment is gone.

The three of you chat all afternoon, as usual, but sitting in a circle on the floor instead because you have no space for a kitchen table and your couch is more of a loveseat. You serve coffee and tea made by hand because you don’t have any cool appliances. Evening comes, which means Super Smash Bros and Mario Kart, but played on N64 this time because it’s your house and your rules. You order pizza. Egg climbs all over everyone and generally makes a gigantic nuisance of himself. He cries when they leave.

It’s kind of a perfect day, and you’re pleasantly surprised that you feel that way.

* * *

Since you now have Kaiba’s number, you deem it appropriate to send him an occasional text message. He deems it appropriate to respond, once in a blue moon.

Then once in a blue moon becomes once a week or so, and then twice a week, and somehow you end up texting nearly every day. You hadn’t thought of yourself as a big texter previously, but it’s just a very natural stream of fragmented conversation, memes, friendly insults and cat pictures that stems from and overlaps with your coffee conversations and Sunday afternoon conversations and Steam conversations.

Oddly enough, you’re not playing Civilization 6 nearly as often these days. You’re not exactly sure if you miss it.

* * *

Your life feels full. Work is ramping back up again for the summer - wedding season, which you love and hate in equal measure - so you’re spending more time playing music and less time temping and barista-ing. Even though part of you internally screams with rage every time you have to play Pachelbel’s Canon, overall you feel so much more content that part of you wonders, for the very first time, if maybe it would be worth putting down a few roots in the name of having steadier opportunities to make music.

Weddings tend to be pretty simple repertoire, mostly arrangements of pop songs and the occasional old warhorse of a classical piece, so it’s easy to stack them; you’re doing at least three every weekend, often more, and this means even more rehearsals throughout the week with the various ensembles you’re gigging with. You’re so busy that you drop off the map a little bit.

Anzu lures you back into the fold with a group hangout, a convenient way to see everyone at once before you dive back into wedding hell. She’s even arranged it on a Wednesday night so that there’s minimal risk of a last-minute booking popping up. This is so thoughtful of her that you accept on the spot.

The plan is basically just to hang out at Yuugi’s grandfather’s game shop. Some other people you haven’t met yet will be there - Jounouchi’s little sister, some more high school friends, pro-Duelist friends. There will be lots of games and snacks and apparently Yuugi makes an unbelievably delicious spiked punch. You’re genuinely excited.

When the night finally arrives you meet Bakura, Otogi, and of course Shizuka, who is cute as a button and apparently taking the night off from her insane med school schedule. The party gets off to a great start. You have Pachelbel’s Canon stuck in your head. It’s fine. If you ignore it, it will hopefully leave of its own accord. Everyone talks and laughs and fights over the best snacks. Yuugi very patiently attempts to teach you to play Duel Monsters while Honda and Otogi heckle you from the sidelines. You suck at Duel Monsters but it’s so funny watching Yuugi try his best not to kill you within five turns that you don’t mind.

Halfway through the night Mai shows up. She is stunningly beautiful, radiates _insane_ confidence, has a whip-smart sense of humour, and has at least a passing knowledge of just about every topic under the sun. She rescues you from Duel Monsters hell and starts a lively conversation with you and Anzu. You’re picking up some kind of vibe between her and Anzu, but it’s hard to pinpoint, because Mai seems to have some kind of vibe with _everyone_.

You drink a lot of punch. Everyone’s right - Yuugi is a punch magician and it is absolutely divine.

Somewhere around midnight, your phone buzzes with a text. _Go online._ You don’t even have to look at the contact name to know that it’s Kaiba; no one else would demand that you game with them at midnight on a Wednesday.

 _Can’t,_ you type back. _Busy._

_What could you possibly be doing?_

Mai leans over your shoulder. You’re not worried - Kaiba is in your phone as MajorKusanagi896, and you are in his phone under your screenname. Neither of you had discussed it, but it’s just the natural way of things.

“Rude,” Mai snorts, reading the message. “Hey, take a selfie with me.”

“Okay,” you say happily. You are very aware that any selfie with Mai is going to make you look like a troll in comparison, but she’s just so cool and nice and funny and pretty that you feel honoured by the request. Mai is a selfie pro. She knows exactly what lighting and angles will make the two of you look your most adorable. You appreciate the effort, even though you feel it’s rather wasted on you.

You end up actually kind of liking the result, even though Mai has her middle finger raised to the camera.

“Oh, aren’t you just the cutest thing,” Mai teases while her arm is still looped around your waist. “Don’t you shake your head at me, sweet pea, you’re _gorgeous._ ” This has you flustered enough that you fail to react when she quickly nabs your phone, taps a couple buttons, then hands it back to you. She’s sent the selfie to Kaiba.

A part of you feels a strange sense of doom, but you’re too drunk to really parse it, so you just smile at Mai like a dope instead.

“Don’t let any asshole guy push you around, hon,” Mai says, wagging a finger. “It’s none of anyone’s business what you’re doing on a Wednesday night.”

Mai is _so_ cool. You can’t imagine any asshole guy pushing _her_ around.

Kaiba’s reply pings back. _What are you doing with Kujaku?_

You’re not surprised that they know each other; they’re both on the pro Dueling circuit, after all. _We’re at Yuugi-kun’s house,_ you type back. It doesn’t occur to you to hide your screen, so Mai is watching over you shoulder.

“How does your boyfriend know me?” she says, with a surprised look on her face.

The sense of doom intensifies. Pachelbel’s Canon is still stuck in your head and you can’t think of what to say, because all the room in your brain has been suddenly taken up by the cello part. _Daaaa, daaaaa, daaaaa, daaaaa..._

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you say. “He’s just Kaiba-kun,” you add, because you’re drunk and confused and you don’t want to lie and you can’t remember why you probably shouldn’t say that. The violin part of the Canon is drifting through your brain at increasing volume. You wish it would quit doing that, or else you’re going to have to start humming it.

Anzu has chosen the absolute most inopportune moment to join the conversation. “What’s this about Kaiba-kun?”

“Her friend, apparently,” Mai says to Anzu, gesturing at you. “Since when does Kaiba have friends?”

“Not nice,” Yuugi pouts. He’s stuck on the couch nearby, Jounouchi snoring in his lap. “Kaiba-kun has always been our friend.”

You don’t like this. You’re getting a very distinct sense of tension around mentions of Kaiba, which you are suddenly remembering is the reason you have chosen to carefully avoid the topic of your friendship. Pachelbel’s Canon won’t go away. You really don’t want to have to hum it.

Jounouchi snorts himself awake. “Huh? What’re we talkin’ about?”

“Nothing, Katsuya,” Yuugi soothes, petting his hair. “Go back to sleep.”

“We’re shit-talking Kaiba,” Otogi says unhelpfully, which yanks Jounouchi into immediate wakefulness.

“Count me the fuck in,” he slurs, narrowing his eyes.

“We’re not shit-talking anyone,” Yuugi says firmly. “We’re just _talking_ about Kaiba-kun, because...” he trails off, enormous violet eyes unfocused. “Because...?”

 _Daaaaa, daaaaa, daaaa, daaaa,_ your brain supplies in lieu of an answer.

“’Cause our dear friend Kaiba is texting _her_ ,” Mai says, putting a protective arm around your shoulders again, “at midnight on a Wednesday. What is he up to, huh?” Mai teases, pinching your cheek, and apparently unaware of the dread that has overtaken you by this point.

“Nothing,” you mumble. “He just wants to play Civ 6.”

“Civ 6,” Anzu repeats, frowning. “Isn’t that the game you play with...” She glances at your phone. You have another new text. “MajorKusanagi896...”

You can see the gears turning as she puts it all together. Jounouchi looks like he’s putting things together too. “Wait,” he says, “your online pal is...”

Pachelbel’s Canon has reached its boring, stupid crescendo in your brain, but for some reason it’s just stuck repeating the same bar over and over again.

You glance at the latest text from Kaiba. _You said you were too busy working to see me this week._

“Ohhhh,” you moan, then crouch down put your head between your knees in despair.

* * *

“It’s okay,” Anzu soothes for the tenth time, rubbing your back. “Deep breaths.”

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, also for the tenth time.

“Aw, man,” Jounouchi says. He keeps running his hand through his hair, but it’s so thick that it just flops immediately back into his eyes. “I can’t _believe_ that asshole is MajorKusanagi896! That was, like, a love story for the ages. And it turned out to be _Kaiba_?”

“What?” you choke.

“Jou-nou-chi,” Mai says, waving her finger in his face to punctuate each syllable. “Has it ever occurred to you that stupid comments like that are why she didn’t tell you?”

“Why do you all hate each other so much?” you say forlornly into your knees.

“What?” Jounouchi says, surprised. “No one hates anyone. Kaiba’s our friend. We play Overwatch with the guy every weekend.”

You’re so confused. Everyone in the group but Yuugi and Anzu tends to refer to Kaiba as _that asshole_ and Kaiba gets huffy at any mention of _the nerd herd_ or _those stupid geeks._ None of them hang out with him, and no one’s ever mentioned the Overwatch thing before. You have no idea what kind of friendship that is.

“I can see why you’re confused,” Yuugi says kindly, reading your mind. “But Katsuya’s right! We have a lot of history with Kaiba-kun and we all care about him very much.”

The way that’s phrased is weird. It’s like how you’d talk about a friend who is in dire straits. You wonder if Kaiba is in some sort of dire straits that you don’t know about.

“So you guys aren’t mad that I’m friends with him?” you wobble pathetically.

Honda seems to find this endearing, and pries you away from Anzu for a hug. “Naw,” he says, “no one’s mad at you. I mean, maybe a little confused because you’re you and he’s...you know, him, but if it works for the two of you then that’s great.”

On the one hand, it feels like a relief to have everything out in the open with everyone. On the other hand, there’s a part of you that feels a little bewildered by all this new information, this further mashing-together of MajorKusanagi896 with the rest of your life. It’s one thing to know the same people, in an abstract sense; it’s another thing to wrap your head around the fact that your online Civ 6 friend is also Yuugi’s online Overwatch friend, who is also Jounouchi’s in-person asshole friend, and so on and so forth. You wonder what Kaiba is like when he games with people other than you. Is he even more rude and insulting? You have a hard time imagining that.

You manage to enjoy another hour of the party before you start to want to go home to your cat. Jounouchi offers to take you home on his bike, but you decline - your apartment isn’t that far away, and Japan is the safest place you’ve ever lived.

You need the walk home to think, anyways.

You see Kaiba once every week or two, and text almost daily. You have a group text with him and his little brother. Your cat loves him. You have a circle of mutual friends, apparently, to a degree that you weren’t even aware of. But you’re struck with the sudden realization that you actually don’t know that much about him.

The things you text about are essentially the same things you’d chatted with MajorKusanagi896 about all those years - some mundane work talk, but also a lot of current events, abstract concepts, interesting facts, deep-dives into your respective fields - and somehow you’ve never really managed to diversify into anything personal. Everything you know about his life is from Google, and you’re not actually sure if he knows much about yours at all.

You’re drunk and pissed off by his most recent text and you’re starting to feel really fired up about this. You let him _come to your house_ and you didn’t even know until tonight that he plays Overwatch with his supposed enemies. (This connection makes sense to you right now but when you think back in the morning you won’t be able to make sense of it at all.)

You call him.

“What?”

God, the way he answers the phone is _the worst._ You realize this is the first time you’ve ever spoken on the phone.

“I didn’t know we were allowed to hang out on Wednesdays,” you say, a little more heatedly than you meant to.

“It’s two in the morning,” Kaiba replies.

“I didn’t wake you up,” you say, with total conviction.

“You didn’t.”

There’s an awkward silence. Thinking back to all the times you played games together when you were living in various places overseas, it suddenly occurs to you that you have no idea when this guy actually sleeps.

“You’re mad because I was at Yuugi’s house,” you accuse him.

“You’re not there anymore? Where did you go?”

“ _Listen_ to me,” you cut him off. “You’re upset. We need to talk about it.”

“I’m not upset,” he scoffs, sounding upset. “Answer my question.”

“No,” you say, “because Japan doesn’t have street names so I have no idea how to answer it. _You_ answer _me_. What the hell was up with that text message?”

“You said you were too busy working to see me this week,” he recites, reading the text word-for-word.

You want to literally scream into the phone at him, maybe blow up his eardrums for being the most frustrating person alive. You do not do that. It would probably wake up hardworking Domino City residents who don’t deserve your bullshit, or Kaiba’s for that matter. You take a deep breath instead.

“We hang out on Sundays,” you say, as patiently as you possibly can. “It is currently wedding season. People get married on Sundays. I will be working every Sunday until late September.”

“We don’t have coffee on Sundays.”

“I’m aware,” you grit through your teeth. “If you scroll up for _two seconds_ in our text history, you will see that you provided me with a list of your free times for coffee this week, and I was in rehearsal for all of them.”

“You didn’t tell me you weren’t in rehearsal tonight.”

“Because we don’t hang out on Wednesday nights.”

This doesn’t come out like the slam-dunk you imagined it to be. It actually suddenly seems absurd once you say it out loud.

“Why not?” Kaiba says, after another long silence.

You’re not sure what to say to that. You don’t know why not. “Um,” you venture uncertainly, “do you...want to hang out on Wednesday nights?”

What you’re really asking him is, _do you want to be the kind of friends that hang out on Wednesday nights_ , but you don’t even know what that means.

“I don’t foresee that being an issue,” he says slowly.

“Well, that’s just capital,” you respond, and he snorts out a laugh on the other end of the line. “Which Wednesdays are you free?”

“I’m free now,” he says.

You have no idea where that came from or how to respond to it, so you go with: “It’s technically Thursday.”

“I’m asking if you need a ride, stupid. You’re drunk and wandering around at two in the morning and apparently don’t know where you are.”

“I know exactly where I am,” you argue. “I just can’t tell you because I can’t remember what blocks are between my house and Yuugi’s.”

“How the fuck have you survived this long?”

“Ha, this is nothing,” you say. “One time after a night out in LA-”

“I don’t want to hear about you getting lost after a night out in Los Angeles,” he snaps. “My blood pressure can’t take it. Do you want a ride or not?”

You think about it. “Yeah, I kind of do,” you say honestly. “But it would be really impractical, because I can see my apartment building from here. So I guess what I’m saying is, no.”

“I see.” You can’t tell if you’re imagining the disappointment in his voice.

“But,” you say impulsively, “would you want to...keep talking? For a little while?”

“Only if you put Egg on the phone the second you get home so I don’t have to listen to your idiot voice any longer than necessary.”

“Deal,” you agree, and because he can’t see you, you let yourself grin ear-to-ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important note: The author does not share any abovementioned opinions on Pachelbel's Canon. I love Pachelbel's Canon, unironically and unabashedly, no matter how many times I have to play it. But this is not a common musician opinion, so I have chosen to make Reader a little more in line with the rest of the musician world. (ಥ ͜ʖಥ)
> 
> Thank you as always for the support!! <3


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I updating too often? I have no idea. Someone please help an internet grandma who doesn't understand things like posting schedules and self-restraint.

You set a date for next Wednesday, because Kaiba is the most literal person you have ever met. (Well. MajorKusanagi896 had been the one to hold that dubious title, technically.) Mokuba lets it slip in the group chat that Kaiba actually rescheduled a business dinner with shareholders to free up the time. You feel a sudden and crippling pressure to make it worth his while.

Kaiba keeps suggesting _very_ nice restaurants, which is annoying, because even though you’re getting a lot of work right now you really need to save for the slow parts of the year. You tell him this, and he tells you to stop being difficult and that he’ll pay for it. You refuse. He doesn’t understand. So on and so forth.

 _So you don’t like nice restaurants_ , he texts you.

 _I don’t_ , you agree, refusing to rise to his bait.

_Which means you like bad restaurants._

_No! You jackass. It’s not a dichotomy._

_Isn’t it?_

You finally bully him into acquiescing to a cute little upscale-ish hipster lounge you’ve passed by a few times on your way to work at the coffee shop. It’s the sort of establishment with string lights and a nice patio. You feel like it would normally be a touch out of your price range, although that’s not saying much because the bars you frequent with Kobayashi and Matsuda tend to be just a step above dive bars, and the bars you visit to hear your musician friends play live are a step below dive bars.

Problem number one: You have _no_ idea what to wear.

You call Honda. Honda knows what to wear in every situation.

“Are you finally going on another date, Hermit crab-san?” Honda teases.

“No!” you protest, a little too vehemently. “I know what to wear on dates. But this _isn’t_ a date, that’s the whole problem.”

“I see,” Honda says seriously. “That is a dilemma. Where are you going?” You love how Honda treats all your stupid problems with careful consideration.

“1927. That little lounge near me and Jounouchi-kun’s work.”

“Oh, 1927 is great,” he says excitedly. Honda loves hipster bars. “You’re gonna love it. It’s fancy, though,” he warns.

You feel a little offended. Just because you live in jeans and ironic t-shirts doesn’t mean you’re not acquainted with fancy. You’re a violinist for crying out loud, you own a set of very elegant concert blacks.

When you don’t respond, Honda adds, “So you can’t wear your Garfield t-shirt.”

You had thought about it, very briefly. It had seemed like it would be a funny sort of power move that would throw Kaiba off.

“Okay, okay,” you say. “What _do_ I wear, then?”

“Well, if it’s not a date, you can wear just about anything if you go light on the makeup. Not like, what _women_ think is light makeup - what _men_ think is light makeup.”

“Right. So a decent amount of makeup, but in natural shades - staying away from bold lip and eyeshadow colours.”

“Bingo. Hey, do you still have that adorable little tweed pinafore dress?”

“Am I allowed to wear tweed in the summer?”

“Yes. Just pair it with a chiffon blouse or something.”

Honda is the token straight guy in the friend group, and also the only male who understands fashion in a context other than strapping on way too many belts and wearing absurdly tight pants. You love and appreciate this about him, and resolve that you will bring him an extremely large box of donuts the next time you hang out.

You get there early, partly because you feel the need to take a few minutes to orient yourself beforehand. Unfortunately it seems that Kaiba has had the same idea. He’s already by himself in a booth when you get there, wearing a very nice suit as usual, and he seems just as surprised to see you as you are to see him.

“You’re early,” he says accusingly.

“So are you!” you retort, stunned by the hypocrisy.

“I’m always early,” he argues, “and you’re always late.”

The waitress hovers awkwardly with the drink Kaiba has already ordered, unsure if she should approach. You wave her over with a smile.

Bickering about who arrived when is enough to take you through the first few minutes, and then a slightly awkward silence descends. You try not to take it personally. Yours and Kaiba’s relationship is built on years of habit and sameness, and this whole Wednesday night thing is novel for both of you.

“How was your day?” you say, at the same time he says, “You look nice.”

Continuing on the theme of novelty, these are both hitherto-unsaid phrases in your friendship. You both talk about work, but you never talk about _your days_ , and neither of you has ever complimented the other’s physical appearance - usually the opposite, in fact.

“Um, thanks,” you say, and suddenly become extremely aware of the fact that you decided to leave your hair down. Is it weird that your hair is down?

“My day was fine,” Kaiba says, his discomfort betrayed not by his facial expression or his tone, but the fact that he’s drumming his fingers on the table. You wonder when you picked up on that particular tell.

If this is the kind of friendship that comes from hanging out on Wednesday nights, you’re not sure you’re so keen on it after all. But you press on, determined. “What did you do?”

“What’s with the third degree?” he snaps.

“It’s a normal question!” you say, throwing your hands up in the air.

“Then you answer it,” he challenges.

“Fine!”

He leans back, folds his arms, and _smirks._ Like he thinks he’s won, or something. You hate this jerk. But you are a mature and refined adult, so you do not kick him under the table.

“Well...” you pause, trying to remember what you actually did today. It seems like a blur. “Jounouchi-kun and I opened the coffee shop together this morning at five...then I went home and practiced for a couple hours until rehearsal...then rehearsal, then here, I guess.” You leave out the part where you panic-called Honda for fashion advice.

“That’s a long day,” Kaiba comments, and takes a sip of his drink. “How was rehearsal?”

“Good!” you say happily. “I really like this ensemble. It’s a flute quartet headed by Nakai-san, you know, the one from Minato Philharmonic.” You proceed to tell him all about the violist, Yoshioka Kouta, who has absolutely _spectacular_ tone and such beautiful bowing that it kind of makes you want to cry. He asks more questions about the rest of your day, and before you know it he’s gotten basically every detail out of you without offering a single one in return.

That tricky bastard, you think, narrowing your eyes at him. “Your turn!” you say cheerily. “Tell me about your day.”

“Boring,” he says. “I went to meetings.”

“What kind of meetings?”

“Shareholders. R&D. KPI review with Marketing.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Did Marketing meet their KPIs?”

Kaiba soon realizes that laconic answers aren’t going to save him from your cheerful interrogation, and finally gives in to providing slightly more detail. Your food arrives. The conversation starts to sustain itself. You learn a lot of interesting tidbits about him, like the fact that he and Yuugi and Mokuba eat lunch together in the KaibaCorp cafeteria nearly every day. You decide not to ask him about the whole strange dynamic between him and Yuugi’s friends just yet. That can wait a few Wednesdays.

You pretend to excuse yourself to the restroom and secretly flag the waitress so you can pay both your bills. It’s pricey, but you just really want to do it, for reasons you can’t exactly pinpoint. Possibly revenge for Kaiba being so pushy and obnoxious about paying in the first place.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Kaiba says, when he finds out.

“You can pay next time,” you reply with a sunny smile.

He glowers at you. “Does that mean I get to choose where we go?”

“No.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m driving you home.”

“It’s okay, I can walk.”

“I wasn’t giving you a choice, since apparently unilateral decision-making is the theme of the night.”

You wonder what he’d do if you just took off sprinting the second you got out the doors. Maybe he’d run you down with his car to make a point.

Instead he proceeds to completely throw you off by opening the door for you like a total gentleman. Then he opens the car door for you, too, and guides you in via a gentle hand on your elbow. That one-two punch has you so off-balance that all you can do is just stare at him with wide eyes as he buckles his own seatbelt and starts the car.

“What?” he says, but it’s not his usual snappish type of _what_.

“I really like hanging out with you,” you say, and you have no idea where that came from or why it decided to exit your mouth but now it’s out there and you just have to suffer the consequences.

“Hm,” he says tersely. Then after a few minutes of driving in silence, he says, “I do, too.”

For some reason you notice his hands on the steering wheel. He has really nice hands, large yet graceful, with long slender fingers. You have a mad urge to poke the back of his hand. You have no idea why. Just to see what he’d do. You wedge your hands under your thighs to quell the impulse.

As with many of your stupid impulses, if you stifle one, another pops up somewhere else. It’s like you’re playing whack-a-mole with your own brain, all the time.

“Wanna come in and say hi to Egg?” you blurt out.

“Yes,” he replies immediately, and then there is a long stifling moment of silence in which you both consider the implications of this decision. You’ve never hung out alone at either of your houses together. Mokuba’s always there. It’s not like either of you planned it that way; it’s just how things have unfolded.

Thank god for Egg, who breaks up any lingering awkwardness immediately by hurling himself bodily into Kaiba’s shins the second you step through the door. Kaiba reaches down to pick him up, then holds Egg up to his face. “Hello, Egg,” he says, very formally, and you laugh despite yourself.

You start making tea, and Kaiba occupies himself by walking right into your kitchen and nosily looking in all your cupboards.

“What are you doing?” you say flatly. He’s standing there in front of your open refrigerator with his arms crossed disdainfully.

“You know these are supposed to hold food, right?”

“How are you still hungry?”

“Not for me, idiot, for you. You didn’t eat enough at dinner.”

You groan in exasperation as you fill the teakettle. “I’m a slow eater! So sue me!”

“I’m not going to sue you. It wouldn’t be worth my while. Now do you actually keep food in this apartment, or not?”

“No. It’s against my religious beliefs.”

“Stop being difficult.”

“You say that as if I have a choice.”

Kaiba finds a packet of cup ramen, and then holds it out to you expectantly.

“What?” you say, staring down at it. “You want me to just eat this dry?”

“You fucking savage,” he scoffs. “ _Cook it_.”

So this asshole barges into your house, teases your cat, forces you to make yourself a snack while he watches unhelpfully, and then makes fun of the way you brew tea. It’s awful. You’re sitting on the floor eating cup ramen and discussing theories about decades-old sci-fi movies, and the worst part is that you’re having a great time. So is he, by the looks of it. Ten o’clock slips by, then eleven, then midnight.

“I should go,” Kaiba says, glancing at his watch. You’re continually amazed that one of Japan’s premier tech innovators still wears an analog watch, and you assume it must be a rich guy thing, but he pulls it off somehow.

“Okay,” you say, trying not to sound disappointed. He catches it anyways and one corner of his lips twitches up, just fractionally. You follow him to the door with a sleeping Egg cradled in your arms.

You think about earlier, when he told you that you looked nice, and you wonder if he meant it or if was just a random pleasantry. You’re thinking about it because you’re suddenly noticing that _he_ looks really nice. He’s wearing a grey linen suit, but it’s so warm out that he shed the jacket long ago and currently has it slung over his arm. His pale blue dress shirt accentuates his broad shoulders and brings out the startling blue of his eyes. His hair is a little messier than usual, probably because Egg tried to climb on top of his head earlier. Egg is a good hairstylist. You really like the kind-of-messy hair.

“Hm?” Kaiba says, because he’s totally caught you looking. But instead of busting your balls about it like he normally would, he just catches your eyes and looks back at you for a long moment. Then he takes a step towards you.

Your heart starts to pound for what you feel is no good reason at all. Yes, this is the closest you two have ever been to each other, after years of online friendship and months of in-person friendship. But it’s just MajorKusanagi896. It’s just _Kaiba_.

Kaiba slowly lifts his hand and rests it very gently on your upper arm. The light touch sends a thrill down your spine. He leans in towards you, close enough that you feel like your face may actually be on fire, and says lowly: “I’ll see you soon.”

You never exactly noticed this before, because he’s usually misusing it to make shitty sarcastic comments, but he has a lovely voice - a deep, rich baritone. His fingers press into the fabric of your blouse, just for a second.

“Okay,” you reply, and it comes out just barely above a whisper.

The door closes behind him, and it takes you a couple minutes to remember how to move. You feel like maybe tonight was a mistake. Wednesday-night friendship is weird, and confusing, and perhaps a little more than you bargained for. You wonder if there’s a way to just go back to Sundays, then you realize you can’t, because you’re a slave to the whims of the matrimonial-industrial complex until at least September.

You pick up Egg and hold him up to your face.

“It’s just Kaiba,” you tell him out loud.

Egg stares back at you.

“It’s just MajorKusanagi896,” you continue. “You know. Our friend. The one who ragequit a game of Civ 6 last week because I nuked him.”

Egg meows reproachfully, because Egg can see through your bullshit one-hundred percent of the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, my favourite thing to write: _Idiots In Denial._
> 
> Just a wee little chapter today, but the next one will be longer! The Plot Is Coming. Watch Out. It's Right Behind You. ( ✧≖ ͜ʖ≖)


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, my turtle doves, you asked for it. The feedback was that there's no such thing as too-frequent updates as long as I don't eat through my like, ten-chapter buffer. So, off we go!

You had kind of thought, because Kaiba Seto is a very busy man and also a very literal man, that one successful Wednesday dinner would mean that you would begin a routine of Wednesday dinners.

In other words, you thought you’d have some time to process.

No such luck. Kaiba calls you at the ungodly hour of seven a.m. the next morning. He doesn’t text you. He _calls_ you. It’s inhumane.

“What are you doing at twelve-thirty today?”

You blink. “Nothing, technically.”

“Technically?”

“I, um, have a rehearsal ending at twelve, and another one starting at two.”

“That’s enough time for us to have lunch.”

“What?”

Kaiba sighs impatiently. “Are you coming to have lunch with me at the office or not?”

This just keeps escalating without your input, and you can’t keep up. “Yes?” you say.

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

“Yes,” you repeat, because despite everything you find yourself really wanting to.

You hang up, and then pull your blankets over your head and freak out for a minute, because just going along with whatever this asshole says isn’t like you at all, and you can’t even bring yourself to be upset about it.

When you arrive at KaibaCorp decked out in ripped jeans, canvas slip-ons, a faded muscle shirt bearing the slogan SUNS OUT GUNS OUT, and your violin case slung over your shoulder, there is a very confused-looking man in a suit waiting there to meet you. You can tell he’s trying not to give you a once-over. He bows deeply, asks you your name twice, to confirm, and then hands you a keycard.

“Shachou’s office is on the top floor,” the man informs you, as you walk together towards the elevator. “I have been instructed to ensure that you find your way there, but your keycard also has the necessary clearance.”

You glance down at the keycard. It’s even more elegant than the musician one you’d been issued before - this one has a metallic sheen, and the embossed KC logo is in a steely blue. It has a nice weight to it.

“Where do I return it after?” you ask.

“Return?” the man says. “Oh, no. This is yours to keep. Shachou has indicated that you will be working closely together for the foreseeable future, and until such time as your business concludes you are to be granted high-level clearance.”

You smile, nod, and do your best to keep a straight face. Kaiba is _so_ full of shit. It’s frankly astounding.

“We are all very pleased to welcome you to Kaiba Corporation,” the man continues, very politely, “in your role as...”

“Artistic advisor,” you lie. Whatever. It’s true. You give Kaiba unsolicited critique on KaibaCorp titles all the time.

The nice man finally sets you free at the door to Kaiba’s office. The door is open, so you try not to make eye contact with his secretary and walk right in.

Yuugi and Mokuba are there too, to your delight, seated around Kaiba’s desk with bags of take-out. Kaiba snorts when he sees you.

“Oh, so this is why we’re eating in your office today,” Yuugi says to Kaiba, with a wide, genuine smile. “How fun!”

“What guns?” Kaiba says, by way of greeting.

You strike a pose and flex. “Don’t be too jealous. If you played violin, you could look like this too.”

Mokuba laughs. “Quit flexing and sit down, nee-san. We got you okonomiyaki.”

* * *

It turns out that deviating just once from your Sunday pattern has opened the floodgates.

You’re both so busy - you with wedding season and Kaiba with fall launches - that you start just taking random opportunities to see each other. You visit him at KaibaCorp and eat lunch in the cafeteria with Kaiba, Yuugi and Mokuba. He picks you up after gigs, even late at night, and you’ll go together for ice cream or ramen or whatever’s still open. When you can’t see each other for a stretch, you talk on the phone; not long conversations, but he’ll call you in ten-minute breaks between meetings, and you’ll call him as you walk to work.

This is the problem with Kaiba Seto. He keeps breaking out of every box you try to put him in. He broke out of the _occasional online gaming friend_ box, so you stuck him in the _longtime regular online gaming friend_ box. Somehow, before you noticed it, he outgrew that one too, so you reluctantly moved him up to _longtime very important online friend_ ; and then he destroyed that box handily and became your coffee friend, then your occasional Sunday friend, and now he’s just escaped containment entirely and is your _all the fucking time_ friend.

You’ve always kind of wanted a friend like this, a friend that’s comfortably woven into the fabric of your life. Now that you have it, you’re realizing that it doesn’t feel like fabric at all. It feels like your life is a house of cards, and he’s become one of the cards. Which is gratifying and nerve-wracking in about equal measure.

 _I have to cancel for tonight, I’m sorry,_ you text, then send a stack of crying emojis even though you know it will annoy him. You just really want to communicate that you’re broken up about it, because you are. You’d been looking forward to dinner at the trendy new restaurant that had conveniently opened exactly equidistant between your apartments.

_What? Why?_

_Last-minute gig tomorrow, subbing for another quartet that got TPK’d by the flu. Have to spend the whole evening practicing._

_Practice here._

You stare at the screen in disbelief.

_Practice where?_

_Here. At the apartment. I’ll work from home this evening._

You resist the urge to point out to him, as you have many times before, that ten to twelve hours a day at the office should be sufficient and he probably shouldn’t be working from home on top of that, but first you need to sort this out.

_You want to listen to me practice?_

_Yes. I’ve never heard you play solo before._

_Practicing isn’t playing,_ you insist. You need him to understand what he’s asking for. _Practicing is getting all the ugly sounds out of your violin in advance. I’m telling you, you don’t want to hear me massacring the same bar of music twenty times in a row. It means scales, Kaiba-kun,_ scales.

_Then you’d better play me something nice at the end to make up for it._

You have to admit, the offer is _unbelievably_ tempting. You’ve been getting mean notes under your door from an elderly woman in the building who really doesn’t appreciate your racket, and even though the rest of your neighbours insist they don’t mind your playing, you still feel so guilty about practicing in a building with all the soundproofing properties of a canvas tent that you’ve been stress-baking apology cookies to distribute amongst your floor.

It would be really nice to give your neighbours a break, and practice in a soundproofed, air-conditioned building. In fact, you bet the soundproofing in the Kaiba penthouse is so good that Kaiba might not even hear you from a few rooms over. He also has those insanely expensive noise-cancelling headphones. You could bring your practice mute.

You’re aware that you’re actively talking yourself into it, but hey, _he asked_. Worst case, he realizes the true horror of a practicing musician and never invites you to over to practice again, but at least you get one nice peaceful evening out of it.

 _Okay,_ you text back. _Thanks, this is great!_ You stick on a smiling emoji and a violin emoji, specifically because he hates emojis, and hit send.

You won’t let Kaiba send Sunglasses Man (Isono, as you now know he’s called) to pick you up unless you are also bringing Egg, so you just bike over there instead. The ride between your houses isn’t short, but it’s a beautiful day.

“Yo,” you say, raising a hand in greeting as you step through the elevator doors.

“Yo,” Kaiba returns. He’s seated at the kitchen island with a mug of coffee it’s way too late in the afternoon to be drinking, and doesn’t look up from his laptop.

“Whatcha working on?” you pry, coming around behind him and leaning over his shoulder.

“None of your business.”

“Yes it is. I’m your artistic advisor.” You bump his shoulder with yours, deliberately trying to be annoying. “I have high-level clearance,” you whisper conspiratorially.

“You’re fired,” he mutters, but his lips are twitching.

“Mokuba-kun,” you call back over your shoulder, “re-hire me, please.”

“Mokuba’s not here,” Kaiba says.

You straighten up and take a full step back. “Oh,” you manage. Realizing that you’re alone in the apartment together makes your proximity seem strangely weighted. “Where is he?”

“Out with Yuugi and the geek squad, god knows why,” Kaiba replies shortly. “Now would you quit annoying me and go do your violin crap?”

“Your respect for the arts is astounding,” you say dryly. “Where should I go do my violin crap?”

“Home office,” he says, gesturing down the hall.

It occurs to you as you set up your shitty folding music stand that you are in here, with his cool, powerful, multi-monitor computer setup, and he is out there at the kitchen island with a laptop. You decide not to question it. This room has _gorgeous_ acoustics, probably due to the tasteful wood paneling.

You start with double-stop intervals; moving from major thirds, to perfect fourths, skipping over fifths and going straight to minor sixths for no reason other than to keep yourself on your toes. Once those are done you knock off some scales, combining them with bowing exercises. It feels _so_ nice to practice when you know you’re not bothering anyone; the freedom from that anxiety makes you feel a bit more adventurous with your exercises.

Most of the repertoire is easy, just popular songs done up in cute little arrangements, but you’re actually playing three weddings tomorrow - one ceremony in the morning and one in the early afternoon with your string quartet, and then a late-afternoon ceremony with your flute quartet where you’ll also be playing with the band for the reception - so it’s a lot to get through. You get the top-40 arrangements out of the way first, saving the classical for last.

It’s not like you hate the top-40 stuff. Not at all. But classical music is your greatest passion in life, and even the first few bars of Bach’s _Air on the G string_ tug at your heart so much that you find yourself thinking again about that period where you’d briefly played in an orchestra in New York. You’ve been listening to Nakai’s orchestra stories with maybe a little touch of envy lately - that sense of community, of knowing you’ll be playing with the same people every week and that you’ll all continually push each other to make the music as beautiful as it can possibly be.

Midway through a very pretty quartet arrangement of Debussy’s _Claire de Lune,_ you hit a wall and decide to take a break. You dick around on your phone for a while, and then you lay on the floor and stare at the ceiling. Then you sit up stare at your violin. You sort of want a snack, but you can’t tell if you’re bored or hungry, and so you mess around even more to distract yourself.

“Look at that subtle off-white coloring. The tasteful thickness of it,” you rasp in your best Patrick Bateman voice, turning your keycard from side to side. “Oh my God, it even has a watermark...”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Kaiba says from the doorway, where he’s been leaning with his arms folded for God knows how long. “Refrain from enacting the American Psycho business card scene with my keycard.”

You whirl around, busted. “It’s _my_ keycard, thank you, and I’ll re-enact whatever I want,” you sniff, trying to preserve at least a shred of your dignity.

“Did you not hear the part where I told you that you were fired?”

“Get out of my office,” you say, pointing at him dramatically.

Kaiba smirks and takes a further step into the office. “What are _you_ working on?” he taunts, nosily leafing through your sheet music as if he can actually read it, which you know for a fact he can’t.

“Debussy,” you say primly. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long, but I cracked the door open hours ago so I could hear what you were doing,” he says shamelessly, paging through the _Claire de Lune_ score.

You had not noticed him do that. You sigh. “Why?”

Kaiba ignores you. “What were you playing at the very beginning?”

“Double-stops,” you explain. “When you’re playing on two strings at once. It’s difficult to keep things in tune, so it’s a nice challenging starter exercise.”

“That doesn’t sound so hard,” he says arrogantly. You sort of want to kill him. STEM douchebags always think that they can just _do_ arts stuff without the appropriate training, and it’s one of your personal pet peeves.

“Why don’t you try it, then,” you goad him.

“Nice bluff,” he scoffs. “As if you’d actually trust me with your violin.”

“I do, actually,” you say, and you mean it, but you also want to call _his_ bluff. “Come on. I’ll teach you.”

You’ve got him now. He has no way out, and now he’s just going to have to massacre a double-stop and then live with his failure for the rest of his life.

“Fine,” he deadpans. “Show me how to hold it properly.”

You walk Kaiba through the basics of violin hold and bow hold. He complains about how long your explanation is taking, and can’t he just play some notes already. You tell him to shut up, and inform him that often beginners don’t even get to play notes in the first lesson at all.

“You’d think someone would’ve thought up a more efficient way to teach this damned instrument,” he grumbles.

“It’s a hard instrument. If you can’t handle it, buy yourself a ukulele instead. Relax your wrist.”

“My wrist _is_ relaxed.”

“No it’s not.” You curl your fingers around his wrist and tug it back and forth to demonstrate. “Loosen up. You need the flexibility.”

“No I don’t, I need to hold this violin up and not drop it.”

“You’re not going to drop it,” you laugh. “Look.” You raise up onto your tiptoes so that you can reach his shoulder. “If you drop your shoulder like that - yeah - and then let your chin just rest there, the weight will naturally hold it in place.” You have one hand on his shoulder, gently pushing it down, and the other curled around his wrist. You suddenly realize that you’re just inches from his chest. You can practically feel his body heat, and you’re struck once again by just how beautiful his hands are.

“The whole point,” you say, aware that your voice is suddenly much quieter than it had been before, “is that there shouldn’t be any tension when you’re playing. You’re just relying on gravity and momentum.” You don’t move away from him. You don’t feel like you can.

Kaiba’s not looking at the violin anymore. He’s looking at you, with those arresting blue eyes pinning you to the spot. “All right,” he says, his voice just as quiet as yours, “but it feels precarious.”

“That’s normal,” you murmur. “It’s okay. It’ll feel more natural in time.”

“Look at me,” he says.

You turn, facing him fully. “Yes?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

His free hand comes up and rests gently in the middle of your back. You can’t help the shiver that courses through you.

He doesn’t pull you in. You just stand there for a long, charged moment, hyper-aware of how little space there is between the two of you, and your one point of contact - his large, warm hand on your back.

“Now let’s work on bow hold,” you say suddenly, stepping back and picking up the bow. You can’t tell what the look on his face is, but he doesn’t look happy.

“No, I think I’ve distracted you enough,” he mutters, putting the violin down carefully on the desk. “I’m sorry.” He turns and leaves abruptly.

You close the door behind him, then slide down it until you’re sitting on the floor. What _was_ that? It takes five minutes to pull yourself together, your brain racing the entire time. Whatever it was, it didn’t fit in any boxes, no matter how desperately you want it to.

You stand up, take a deep, shaky breath, and throw yourself into another two hours of frenzied practice to avoid thinking about the structural stability of your house of cards.

Eventually there’s a knock on the office door. You glance at the clock. Nine-thirty.

“I’m sorry, Kaiba-kun,” you say, throwing open the door. “I didn’t realize it was so late. I’ll go home right away.”

Kaiba is standing there holding a little bowl of ohitashi, looking rather taken aback. “It’s not late,” he says brusquely as he recovers. “The soundproofing is excellent. You can stay as long as you want. Just...” he pushes the bowl towards you, frowning.

“Huh?” You look at the bowl in surprise, then take it. “Oh! Thank you. I really like ohitashi.”

“You think I don’t know that, idiot?” he snaps, and turns to leave.

“Wait, Kaiba-kun,” you call after him. He stops, but doesn’t turn around. “I promised I’d play you something nice, didn’t I?”

Kaiba doesn’t move for a moment, like he’s weighing his options. Then he slowly turns, crosses the room, drops into his desk chair, and folds his arms. “I’m listening,” he says grumpily, like you’re about to present him with a business proposal.

You resist the mad urge to laugh, because you have the feeling he wouldn’t appreciate it right now, and pick up your violin. “Any requests?”

“You’re the expert,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“Okay,” you say, smiling at him. You start to play.

* * *

As you lock up your bike in front of your apartment, you notice that two new notifications have come in during your ride home.

One is an invitation to a collaborative playlist, and the other is a text.

_What was that song?_

You grin down at the screen. _Bach, Violin Sonata No. 3 in C Major, third movement,_ you reply. You’d had a good feeling about that one.

_Don’t put it here. Put it in the playlist._

_Okay, okay, you tyrant._

You have three back-to-back weddings to play tomorrow, but you stay up an extra hour anyways to populate the playlist with some of your all-time favourite repertoire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just hear me out: MORONS. IN. LOVE.
> 
> So this is the last chapter of the first arc - next chapter is the start of the second arc, which has more DRAMA!! and PLOT!! Because I'm just compelled to put characters through hell before I let them have happy things. Thank you for all your support during Arc I. <3 Feel free to yell at me in the comments.
> 
>  **Music mentioned in this chapter:**  
> [Bach - Air on the G String](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xFdTiqUT1sQ)  
> [Somewhere Over the Rainbow (Israel Kamakawiwoʻole cover)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-4mRWAbmSVc) \- I don't think I actually mentioned it in the chapter but it's ONE OF THE PIECES OKAY. I LOVE IT  
> [Debussy - Clair de Lune arranged for quartet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4DIxuC_mtO0)  
> [Bach - Violin Sonata No. 3 in C Major, third movement](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3RIw_PCAOmg) \- Seto's fave
> 
> (I'm aware that I'm putting these playlists together just for my own amusement but does anyone have preferences for these being at the beginning or the end of the chapter? Anyone? Bueller?)


	7. Chapter Seven

It’s during your three-wedding extravaganza that you start to feel like something might be off.

You blast through the first two ceremonies with your usual cheerful determination. For all you complain about having to play Pachelbel’s Freaking Canon so many times from June through September, there’s always this really wonderful moment; when the one half of the newlyweds-to-be appears at the end of the aisle, the music is swelling, people start to cry - sometimes the other half of the couple starts to cry as well. Marriage is not something you ever think about for yourself, but you _love_ that moment, and it’s really special to be a part of it.

The third ceremony is two brides in matching white tuxes, which chokes you right the fuck up. Gay marriage isn’t even legal here yet - the best you can get is a certificate that’s in a sort of legal grey area - so these weddings just hold a lot of bravery and extra meaning, and...yeah. You get emotional. And when you experience an odd surge of dizziness mid-ceremony, that’s what you chalk it up to.

You make it through, doing your best to enjoy Debussy’s wildly beautiful _Épigraphes Antiques_. It’s pretty hot for early September and the wedding takes place mostly outdoors, so you’re feeling not quite at your best as you and the other musicians wait around for the reception to start. Luckily the brides are unusually considerate and have reserved plates for the musicians, so you’re at least fed before diving back into the long-haul of the reception.

“Don’t you like this?” Nakai says, poking at your shoulder. “Come on. We’re getting free catered food, don’t be picky.”

You really like Nakai Kaoru - you met through Fujimori’s orchestra and have been gigging together semi-regularly - but _man_ can she be bossy. She pretty much perfectly meets the stereotype of a type-A flute player.

“No, no, it’s fine, Nakai-san,” you say, taking a quick bite of fish. “My stomach just isn’t feeling great today.”

Your stomach is indeed not feeling great today, as you lose its contents to the venue toilets just before you’re due to go onstage. You have to practically sprint back to the reception area, and Nakai gives you a look as you start tuning.

Usually for receptions, the band plays for the first half, and then the second half is taken over by a DJ. You’re doing your best with the music, but you’re also kind of counting down the seconds. Finally you hit the last song, a very cute cover of _Stand By Me,_ and breathe an internal sigh of relief.

That is, until the two lovely brides approach your quartet as you all pack up, their eyes shining.

“Thank you,” one of them says, bowing and then clasping her hands in front of her chest. “You’ve made our day so perfect.”

“Oh, no, no,” Nakai says, giggling and bowing as well. “We were just happy to be part of such a wonderful day. You’ve done an amazing job planning and decorating.”

“Not at all,” the other bride laughs. “Well, anyways, we were wondering...”

Your heart sinks.

“If you’d like to stay and dance for a while?” the other bride finishes for her wife, which is admittedly adorable. “We don’t mean to impose, but you all played so beautifully and we would love to celebrate more with you.”

“Of course,” Nakai says immediately with a beaming smile.

Japan has all sorts of complicated rules around the sempai-kouhai dynamic. You’ve heard from your salaryman friends Kobayashi and Matsuda that they’re often actually _required_ to go out drinking with colleagues after work, in the name of promoting a strong company culture. This dynamic doesn’t translate exactly to gigging musicians, but as the leader of the quartet Nakai is your sempai, and so where she goes you must follow - especially if you want her to put in a good word with Fujimori to hire you on as a regular substitute with her orchestra, the Minato Philharmonic.

So you push through the reception. It’s fine. You make it, and you manage to skirt the issue of your entirely graceless dancing by spending most of your time dancing with the little kids at the reception, which eventually turns into a game of tag - exhausting, but you get enough grateful looks from the parents that it’s worth it.

You’re barely able to stay on your bike on the way home, and you collapse into bed for a profoundly sad four hours of sleep before your opening shift at the coffee shop the next morning.

* * *

“Sanada-chan,” you whine, leaning your head pathetically on the espresso machine.

“Were you up playing video games again?” she scolds gently, although she’s smiling. Even though she’s not the manager, Sanada is like the coffee shop mom, keeping all her errant baristas in line.

“No,” you say. “Weddings.”

Sanada gives you a critical glance. “You look really tired.”

You frown at that. “Is there something wrong with my makeup?”

“No, you’re just moving at the speed of a half-dead slug,” Sanada says, patting your arm lightly. “You should ease up a little.”

You don’t like this topic of conversation, so you switch it, with a complete lack of subtlety or grace. “I need your advice on a friend problem.”

“Okay,” Sanada says happily. She _loves_ giving advice on friend problems.

You glance from side to side. “You’re sure Jounouchi-kun isn’t on shift today?”

Sanada gasps. “No! You can’t fight with Jounouchi-kun! I won’t be able to take a side, I love you both equally!”

“I thought I was your favourite child,” you complain good-naturedly. “No, it’s about a mutual friend of ours.”

“Ah,” Sanada says knowingly, “Kusanagi-kun.”

Even though Jounouchi and his friends now know, you haven’t told Sanada about MajorKusanagi896’s true identity. You just don’t want to get into the whole thing about him being one of Japan’s top tech industry executives. It’s too much weird bullshit that _you_ don’t even like to think about half the time.

“Yes,” you say, charmed as always by Sanada’s insistence on politeness, even when using someone’s screen name.

“Well, tell me,” Sanada says. “What did he do this time?”

You talk to Sanada about Kaiba every now and again, especially when he’s being difficult. She takes the whole thing in good humour, thanks to her easygoing nature, whereas Anzu or Jounouchi are more likely to make unhelpful comments along the lines of: “Well, that’s just Kaiba-kun,” or “I told you, that fuckface is certifiable.”

“He, um...” you _cannot_ think of how to phrase this, so you just have at it. “He touched me.”

Sanada’s eyes widen and she looks horrified.

“No! No,” you reassure her frantically. “No. Nothing like that! It was just like...” You reach out, and rest a hand on her upper arm. “Like this.”

Sanada’s horrified expression persists for half a second, then she bursts out laughing.

“You scared me,” she says through giggles. “I thought I would have to find Kusanagi-kun and trap him in a dark alley.”

Somehow, of all your friends, this threat seems to actually hold weight coming from Sanada - even though she is roughly the size of a bichon puppy and just as adorable.

“No, no, don’t kill him,” you laugh. “Have mercy, San-chan.”

Sanada smiles. “I know almost everything Kusanagi-kun does winds you up, but why this in particular?”

You think about that for a moment. “Um...it’s just...unprecedented, I guess. It really threw me off. I wasn’t expecting it.”

“Well, of course that’s the case,” Sanada points out reasonably, “you’ve gone many years without even being in the same physical space. Did you not like that he did that?”

The opposite, in fact, but that’s not something you’re willing to admit out loud.

“No, it was fine,” you say instead.

“Okay,” Sanada says firmly. “Then you just need to get used to it. Friends touch each other! It’s normal.”

Your manager walks by and heaves a long sigh, probably wondering if she needs to have a talk with the two of you about work boundaries and sexual harassment policies.

“That’s true,” you say. You’re a very affectionate person, in truth; you like hugs, you love holding hands with friends of any gender, you enjoy playfighting. That’s part of the reason you and Jounouchi get along so well. You had just thought that that wasn’t Kaiba’s style, so you’ve been maintaining a respectful distance with him. “So how do we get used to it?”

“Touch each other more,” Sanada suggests. Your manager gives her a sharp look. The two of you break down in giggles, because you are totally mature adult women with careers and everything.

“What do you mean?” you say, more quietly, once your manager has gone off to do stock.

“Well, you don’t even think about it with other friends, right?” Sanada says. “I patted your shoulder just now and you didn’t react. But because you and Kusanagi-kun have been friends _without_ touch for so long, those instincts haven’t been built up yet, so you need to do it consciously.”

You think that makes sense. “So I try consciously to treat him like my other friends, and then eventually it will just come naturally?”

“That’s right,” Sanada nods. “I can very much tell that he wants to have a closer and more natural friendship with you, so he won’t mind.”

You think about that over the next couple of days. You had resigned yourself to a certain amount of distance with Kaiba, and had gotten into the habit of leaving room for Jesus whenever the two of you were together. But Sanada’s right - not only had Kaiba been the first one to initiate any sort of meaningful contact, he also didn’t pull away while you manhandled him during his first de-facto violin lesson. It’s possible that you had entirely misread what you had interpreted as a particularly large personal-space bubble.

The next time you see Kaiba and have a chance to test your theory is totally unplanned, and he bullies his way into it like he does with everything else.

Kaiba’s ringtone - the Civilization 6 opening theme, _Sogno di Volare_ , of course - blares from your pocket.

“What are you doing this afternoon?” he says by way of greeting.

“Did no one ever teach you the word for ‘hello’?” you snark back. “Here, I can help you. In English, it’s...”

“Answer my question.”

“Working.”

“Coffee shop? Rehearsal?”

“Nah, just temp stuff that I can do from home.”

“My last meeting is at noon. I’ll bring my laptop over at one.”

Then he just...hangs up, sans goodbye. The _nerve of this man._ Now you have to actually clean your apartment.

“What the hell is his problem, Egg?” you complain. “What is he even doing? Is he just going to work from here all afternoon? How come he _never asks permission?_ ”

Egg doesn’t care about your rhetorical questions. All he cares about is staring out the window at his nemesis, the little tabby who lives in the building across the street and likes to sit on her balcony, taunting him.

You decide to get your practicing out of the way before Kaiba gets there, because listening to you practice in his nice soundproofed penthouse is one thing, and being trapped in the same room where he can hear every squeak of your strings is another. After that’s done, you take a second pass at your apartment, even though you’re fully aware that your best tidying efforts will never live up to Kaiba’s brand of aggressive minimalism.

Kaiba shows up at one o’clock on the dot - you wonder if he gets places early and just waits in his car so that he can time it exactly right - and steps in through your door with a plastic bag looped over one arm and his massive briefcase slung over the other shoulder. You notice that he’s wearing that grey linen suit again, this time paired with an off-white button down rolled up at the elbows, his suit jacket and tie nowhere to be seen. You kind of like Summer Kaiba. It’s cute, like seeing a shaved poodle.

Kaiba bypasses normal human greetings, as usual, and heads straight for your fridge.

“What are you doing?” you ask suspiciously, as he reaches into the plastic bag.

“Stocking this pathetic excuse for a refrigerator,” he says, sticking a bottle of soy sauce in.

“Hey,” you scold, stepping between him and the refrigerator. “ _Hey._ You can’t just...”

“Can’t just what?” Kaiba says impatiently, holding a bottle of mirin. “Move. You’re in my way.”

“You know I don’t have time to cook,” you say, complying nonetheless as he aggressively gestures for you to step aside. “All that stuff is just going to go bad. You didn’t even ask what I like.”

“I know what you like,” Kaiba says dismissively, reaching into the bag again, “and maybe you’d cook more if you at least had the absolute basics.”

“That’s so hypocritical. It’s not like you can cook.”

“Yes I can. How do you think I raised a kid?”

You think about that for a moment. You’re aware that the Kaiba parents are long dead, from Mokuba’s orphanage comment and from little tidbits you’ve seen in articles about the Kaibas here and there, but you’d never actually given a lot of thought to what that had meant in a practical sense for the two brothers.

“You raised Mokuba-kun,” you say slowly. Kaiba takes advantage of your distraction to finish unloading the contents of his plastic bag into your pantry. “But he’s so nice.”

Kaiba snorts. “That part has nothing to do with me.” He brushes past you, and you watch as he makes his way over to where Egg is sitting at the balcony door.

“Hello, Egg,” Kaiba says, crouching down next to him. “How’s the rivalry today? A good rival is essential for success.”

You’re appalled. Your _cat_ gets a polite hello and inquiry after his day.

Kaiba gives Egg one last pat on the head, and then sits down on your couch, takes out his laptop, and proceeds to absolutely cover your coffee table in papers. You sigh and sit down next to him. “What if I need to put papers on there?”

“Do you?” he asks.

“Well...no.”

“So what’s your problem?”

“You.”

“As per usual, then.”

You roll your eyes at him, then pull out your own laptop and wait for it to boot up. You could use your desktop computer, but it seems weird to just leave him on the couch all by himself. “Hey,” you say, as your dinosaur of a laptop makes its usual tortured start-up noises. “Why did you want to work over here? Your office is air-conditioned, for one.”

Kaiba tears his concentration from his laptop to give you a condescending look. “We haven’t seen each other in over a week.”

Despite the delivery, this is actually kind of sweet, so you decide you’ll reward him for it. You recently bought a new coffee maker - a cute little French press at an absolute _steal_ from a thrift shop - and you might as well take it for a test drive.

(You try not to think too hard about why you picked up a French press on a whim, even though you’re more of a tea drinker.)

As you stand up, on a whim, you rest your hand on his shoulder. “Hey, want some coffee?” you say, as casually as you can possibly manage. _There, Sanada-chan_ , you think, _nailed it._

Kaiba looks at your hand, then up at you. There’s an openly startled expression on his face. “Fine,” he says, but there’s none of his usual snappishness behind it. You’re not sure if you’re imagining the very slight pink tinge on his cheekbones.

 _That’s fine_ , you think to yourself, as you head towards the kitchen. _We just have to get used to it._

“Don’t use that absolute garbage in your cupboard,” he calls after you, apparently recovered. “Use the one I left on your counter.”

“But I like the stuff in the cupboard,” you protest.

“Good,” he says, “then you won’t drink mine before the next time I’m here.”

You used to never even let people _in_ your apartment - you can count on one hand the number of houseguests you’ve had in the last five years. And now Kaiba Seto feels like he can just barge in with less than a day’s notice, stock your fridge, and leave coffee on your counter that you’re not even allowed to drink.

You don’t know how you feel about that, exactly, but you feel a blush of your own rising as you turn around and reach for your new-to-you French press.

* * *

The second sign that something might be a little bit off is more of a blaring loudspeaker alarm, but you’re good at nothing if not ignoring those.

You’re at the coffee shop, on shift alone with Jounouchi. It’s a really slow day, which is fine by you, because you’re feeling a bit out of it - not enough for Jounouchi to notice, luckily, and it’s easy enough to push past.

Then you wake up on the floor surrounded by shattered glass and iced coffee.

“What was that?” Jounouchi calls from the back. You scramble to your feet, fighting the dizziness, and bow low to the customer.

“I’m so sorry,” you say, “I’ll make you another one right away-”

“Er,” says the customer, a middle-aged woman, “no, maybe you should-”

“It’s fine,” you insist, as Jounouchi steps out from behind the door and casts an alarmed look at all the broken class. “Sorry, Jounouchi-kun,” you apologize, your cheeks flaming, “I dropped a glass...”

“Aw, I got it,” Jounouchi says kindly. “You just go change your uniform.”

You nod and trudge to the back, awash in misery and shame. There’s no spare uniforms in your size kicking around, so you resign yourself to spending the rest of your shift swimming in a shirt so large it just about hangs to your knees.

Jounouchi is waiting for you right outside the door.

“You okay?” he says. “Customer says you passed out.”

“Nah,” you lie. “Tripped and fell.”

Jounouchi grins and ruffles your hair. “You klutz. Do we need to buy you a work helmet?”

You spend the rest of the week in a state of heightened annoyance. You _cannot_ believe this happened, and you feel betrayed by your own body. Did you fight through the entire summer just for it to start breaking down like a rusty old car? The hell you didn’t.

It’s fine, you reason. Wedding season is officially done, and the fall is normally pretty slow for you. You can just...take it easy, recover a little, then be back in full force by the time Christmas concert season rolls around.

Then you get a text from Nakai, asking you to meet for coffee.

“I have it on good authority,” Nakai says lowly, leaning over the table, “that there’s going to be a vacant spot in the first violin section within the week.”

She’s talking about Fujimori’s orchestra, the Minato Philharmonic, of course. “Oh?” you say, with great interest. “Who is it?”

“Can’t tell you,” Nakai says, pursing her lips. “But I also have it on good authority that Fujimori-san wants to fill the position right away, and that means January auditions.”

“Wow,” you say. “That’s really soon.”

“They’re putting out the audition announcement and repertoire in a few days,” Nakai explains. “But I’m not just giving you a heads-up about that. As soon as this person’s departure is announced, Fujimori-san is going to be looking for a temporary contract position to fill their seat.”

“You’re kidding,” you say. “Why not just rotate substitute players, if you’re having auditions in a few months anyways?”

“You can’t tell anyone I told you this,” Nakai says solemnly, fixing you with a piercing glare until you nod in agreement. “But Fujimori-san really likes your playing, and she’s going to reach out to you about the contract position. If you do well, you could be auto-advanced to the second round of auditions.”

You take a moment to think about that. The last time you had a full-time orchestral position had been when you lived in New York - not the Philharmonic, of course, just a smaller chamber orchestra - and you’re starting to remember those times with more and more fondness lately. There’s also the issue of your visa. You usually only apply for six-month visas, and Japan had been no exception; but this time you’d actually renewed it. You’d only been approved for another six months. And for the first time in your life, the prospect of a visa expiring doesn’t feel like a relief and an excuse to move on.

“What’s the schedule like?” you wonder.

“Eight services a week. Pretty standard. But,” Nakai says conspiratorially, “Fujimori-san really likes people who volunteer for all the extra stuff. Playing donor receptions, doing extra shows like Nutcracker, things like that. So if you want to get on her good side...”

You get it. It’s not going to be an eight-service week for _you,_ at least not until the auditions.

“Thanks, Nakai-san,” you say sincerely. “I really appreciate you telling me this.”

“What can I say?” Nakai says with a shrug. “I’d rather there be someone in that chair who doesn’t drag the rest of us down.”

You don’t know whether to be flattered, or a little disturbed by a flute player blatantly meddling in the strings section. You decide to just be flattered and worry about it later.

* * *

“So you’re going to be even busier,” Kaiba says on the other end of the line.

“Well...” you hedge. “Sort of? It’ll be a more regular schedule, anyways.”

“Are you going to drop your other jobs?”

“No!” you say, aghast. “For a temporary contract position? Are you kidding?”

Kaiba hums. “Well, I don’t understand why you take on so much work at the temp agency, anyways. You don’t need the money right now, do you?”

“No,” you explain, patiently, to this person who has never done temp work in his life, “but if I complete regular work in a timely manner, it keeps me at the top of the hiring pool for upcoming jobs. I can’t just slack off during the busy season and then come back in the slow season and expect them to prioritize me.”

“Why don’t you just temp at KaibaCorp, then? I can just move you to the top of the list whenever you need it.”

You are so offended by this you can barely speak.

“I have to go,” you say, and hang up.

Kaiba calls back immediately, then calls again when you ignore the first one. You know he can probably do this all night, so you sigh and pick up.

“Did you not hear me say I had to go?”

“I did, and I know you’re full of shit. What’s your problem?”

“That’s...” you struggle for the word in Japanese. “That’s _charity_. It’s embarrassing. You buying me groceries was bad enough. Just because I’m not obscenely wealthy doesn’t mean I can’t take care of myself financially.”

“I know you can take care of yourself financially,” Kaiba snaps, “seeing as you’re apparently so committed to protecting your finances that you won’t replace that brick you call a laptop, and you refuse to buy anything that hasn’t bounced through at least five thrift stores first. I’m saying you seem to struggle with taking care of yourself _physically_ , and having three jobs is clearly not helping with that.”

You’re even more offended. You consider hanging up again, but you know he’ll just call you back. “Fuck you,” you say instead. “What the hell would you know about that? You live on coffee and energy drinks and you sleep, like, four hours a night.”

“Because I can fucking handle it,” Kaiba says sharply. “And because it’s actually necessary for my job."

“Excuse me?” you retort, incensed. “So not only are you saying that the work I do is _unnecessary_ , you’re also saying I can’t handle it?”

“I won’t be held accountable for you insisting on taking everything I say in the most negative possible light.”

“You know what?” you say. “I’ve had just about enough of your condescending bullshit. I know you think the only thing worth doing is being a pretentious celebrity executive, but you can at least keep your mouth shut about it and let me pretend that you respect me.”

With that, you hang up. Kaiba doesn’t call back.

* * *

You’re aware that you may have been a little over-the-top. You’re just coming off one of the most exhausting summers of your life, you’re feeling some major career anxiety, and your stupid traitor of a body does not seem to be getting the message that it’s a _really_ bad time to be doing a nosedive. _Maybe_ those things factored into you flying off the handle.

But there’s a grain of truth in there, too - if you and Kaiba are going to be friends, he needs to respect you on your own terms and not look at you as a charity case. Your definitions of career and financial success clearly differ, and you can’t be the only one putting in the work to bridge that gap.

Fujimori sends you an email asking you to apply for the temporary contract position - hinting as obviously as she can that the application is just a formality, and it’s yours if you want it - and you reply within the hour. You had your resume freshly updated and waiting to go. What Nakai hadn’t told you is that it wasn’t just a section violin position, it was an assistant concertmaster position. If you get the job, you'll be one of two assistant concertmasters, along with someone named Fukuda Daisuke. 

Mostly, you’re excited about a significant opportunity for career advancement, nervous about the clock ticking down on your visa, and looking forward to an actual salary; maybe there’s a little part of you that wants to prove yourself. _You_ know you can do this, even if he doesn’t.

You and Kaiba don’t speak for days. You do play one frosty, silent game of Civilization 6, which devolves into such a petty slapfight that the Gandhi AI is able to come up from behind and nuke you both into oblivion.

You have this strange feeling of missing MajorKusanagi896. You never fought with _him_ \- not seriously, anyways - and that meant you never had to spend days feeling sad and worried about him.

But mostly, you just miss Kaiba.

* * *

_Why are you and nii-sama fighting? :(_

You sigh at Mokuba’s text. Anzu leans over your shoulder. You’re sitting on her bed together, flipping through all the arts brochures you’ve managed to gather and checking out what everyone’s programmed for the season.

“You and Kaiba-kun are fighting?” she says, rolling up the Tokyo Opera season calendar and poking you with it. “What’s going on?”

You flop back on Anzu’s bed with another, louder sigh. “He’s a condescending asshole, that’s what’s going on.”

Anzu smiles and lowers herself down next to you. “We already knew that. Why is it a problem for you now?”

You explain your fight to Anzu, and she nods along attentively. When you get to the part where you - much like AI Gandhi - dropped a nuclear bomb on your friendship, she makes a face.

“I know,” you say dejectedly at the look on her face. “I shouldn’t have called him a pretentious celebrity executive. That was mean.”

“No, no,” Anzu laughs, “I’m pretty sure Kaiba-kun actively takes pride in all those things. But you shouldn’t have said that he didn’t respect you.”

“Why not?” You frown. “He’s treating me like an idiot who can’t manage her own life. Like, come on. He shows up with groceries, tries to boss me into giving up income that I can’t afford to give up, and then lectures me for not taking care of myself? What am I supposed to take from that?”

“Dummy,” Anzu says. “That he’s worried about you and doesn’t want you killing yourself for work.”

“That’s like, his whole thing!” you say, throwing up your hands. “He’s literally famous for being a massive workaholic. Why the double standard?”

“Well, you’re both very independent, ne?” Anzu studies you critically. “I never thought I’d meet someone as resistant to friendly concern as Kaiba-kun is, but...”

You can feel your cheeks heating up. “I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

“I know you are,” Anzu says, patting your hand. “But the whole point of having friends is that sometimes you don’t have to.”

* * *

You think about that at length, on the way home, and then you finally get around to responding to Mokuba’s text:

_Because I’m a stubborn idiot._

As you trudge through your apartment lobby, you decide on a whim to check your mailbox. You’re half-expecting, half-avoiding your utility bill. You grudgingly dig your key in and yank open the little metal door. There’s no utility bill, but there is a parcel, wrapped extremely neatly in brown paper.

Once you’ve made it through the front door and said hello to Egg, you stand at your kitchen counter and carefully unwrap the parcel as Egg twines around your ankles, meowing.

It’s a framed vintage botanical illustration of an arborvitae branch. Affixed to the lower corner is a post-it note that simply reads, “-S.”

* * *

It’s ten o’clock, and no reasonable person would still be in the office, but you jump on your bike anyways. You should really text ahead, but you don’t know what to say, and you’re hoping you’ll figure it out by the time you get there.

You’re realizing that you just...you love this guy. He’s a jerk, he’s difficult and prickly and bossy, he’s a massive dork who understands the meanings of flowers, he’s the kind of person who will notice a book of vintage botanical illustrations on your shelf and save that knowledge for a rainy day. He’s your dearest friend and you adore him.

Even though you have high-level clearance and the requisite keycard on a lanyard around your neck, you still get a few surprised looks from the KaibaCorp staff still trickling out through the lobby. This may be because you’re clearly sweaty, flustered, and distressed; it may also be because you forgot to change out of the ‘EAT THE RICH’ t-shirt you’d been wearing earlier. Planning ahead, as always, is not your strong suit.

You garner a little less wariness on the top floor, especially the closer you get to your destination. The staff are pretty used to you by this point, and no one makes a move to stop you as you barge directly into Kaiba’s office without knocking.

He looks up, and then raises an eyebrow at you. “Did you come here at ten o’clock at night to threaten me with a t-shirt?”

You still don’t know what to say, so you stare at him wordlessly.

“Although that is pretty typical of you,” he snorts, going back to his paperwork. “You stubborn idiot.”

Word travels fast in the Kaiba family, apparently.

Kaiba scratches away with his pen for another minute before looking up again. This time he gets up and steps around his desk, facing you from across the room. “What’s wrong?” he says warily.

You _still_ don’t know what to say, so you cross the distance between you with a few steps, wrap your arms around his waist, and bury your face into his chest.

Kaiba freezes in place for a moment, his arms hovering in the air, like he’s completely glitched out.

“I’m really sorry,” you mumble into his shirt. You keep holding on. You can hear his heart beating. “I was such an ass.”

Slowly, he wraps one arm around you, and then the other. His posture relaxes with a quiet sigh. After a moment he rests his cheek on the top of your head. His embrace is firm, warm, permeated with the scent of his cologne, and you feel more centered than you have in weeks.

“We should fight more often,” he says lowly into your ear, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (~˘▾˘)~ FIGHT! FIGHT!
> 
> I'm kidding. But there really is this point in friendships where you have your first actual fight, and it's weird and scary but also healthy, because it shows that you trust each other enough to disagree instead of just bottling it all up. (Arborvitae's flower meaning is _everlasting friendship_ , so Seto, bless him, is saying here that they'll always be friends even if they fight.)
> 
> Now we are in Arc II! The theme for last arc was about crossing the barrier from digital friendship to IRL friendship, and the theme for this one...well, I'll tell you when it's over. I have three arcs planned for this story and I'm almost finished writing it, so I'll just continue to post chapters as they're edited! <3
> 
>  **Music mentioned in this chapter:**  
> [Pachelbel's Freaking Canon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u-A277AL9sU) \- Flute quartet version!  
> [Debussy - Épigraphes Antiques](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_IcPdn4Dccc)  
> [Stand By Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pkF2Z7QQBJc) \- Flute quartet cover!  
> [Sogno di Volare - Civilization 6 opening theme](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WQYN2P3E06s) \- Kaiba's ringtone LOL
> 
> P.S. A couple orchestral terms, in case anyone doesn't know 'em: 
> 
> 1\. When Nakai tells the reader that she will be doing eight "services" a week: an _orchestral service_ is basically just a block of time that orchestra musicians are paid for - it can be either a rehearsal or a performance.  
> 2\. A _concertmaster_ is the big boss of the orchestra, just under the conductor: the first chair of the violin sections. This is not just a musician, but also has some managerial/administrative aspects to their job. An _assistant concertmaster_ is basically their assistant, and often orchestras will have anywhere from one to three assistant concertmasters.
> 
> Sorry, that was a LONG author's note....⚆_⚆ Thank you as usual for all the love!! You guys are seriously the best, I really look forward to chatting with you all in the comments <3


	8. Chapter Eight

Your first day at the Minato Philharmonic Orchestra is less than ideal.

You know some of these people - Nakai, Koizumi, Shiraishi - from the KaibaCorp recordings, but because those had been optional services, most of the orchestra had been made up of substitutes. When you sit down in the first violin section it’s completely void of familiar faces.

You wave at Nakai. She doesn’t wave back.

The music itself is fine. You’ve played Beethoven’s _Symphony no. 7_ so many times you could probably do it in your sleep, but you carefully studied up prior to rehearsal anyways, taking extra time to polish your playing in hopes of making a good impression. The guest conductor - some hotshot up-and-comer from Osaka that has captured the attention of the Minato Philharmonic’s artistic director - has a rather nice touch with the second movement, you think; grave and stately but with soaring contrasts in dynamic later in the piece.

During break, you hear your colleagues making disdainful comments to each other about it being ‘too slow’ with ‘overwrought dynamics.’ You know that orchestras can be a bit catty, so you try to take it in stride.

It’s a little harder when the cattiness is directed at you.

“I see Fujimori is hiring to make our orchestra _look_ more international,” the violinist beside you says to someone behind him. “Hey.” He taps your shoulder. “Hello. How are you?” he says, in broken English.

Though you haven’t been formally introduced, you know that this is your assistant co-concertmaster, Fukuda Daisuke.

“Fine, thank you,” you say politely in Japanese.

“No worry,” he says in English, an insincere smile on his face. “We speak English together, yes?”

“Either is fine,” you say with a shrug, still in Japanese. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

“Oh, I see,” he replies in Japanese, slowing down and drawing out his words. “You. Want. To. Practice. Japanese?”

“Fukuda-kun,” the violinist behind him says uncomfortably. She pats you on the arm. “Your Japanese is very nice,” she says in the slow, simple Japanese one reserves for children or tourists.

The concertmaster ignores this whole exchange, even though you know there’s no way he hadn’t heard. The conductor signals for everyone to ready their instruments. You sigh and try to focus on the score.

After rehearsal lets out, everyone troops out stage door in tight little clusters, laughing and talking; except you. Shiraishi eventually gives you a half-hearted incline of his head, but Nakai still won’t even look at you.

“How was your first day?” Kaiba asks on the phone, later. Even now he’s _really_ not the how-was-your-day type, so you really appreciate the effort, and you feel you can’t meet the question with negativity.

“The conductor had a really interesting interpretation of the repertoire,” you say, and dive into the music while wholesale avoiding the topic of your co-workers.

The next rehearsal is much the same. Fukuda continues to make snide comments about - well, everything, really, but mostly your status as a foreigner - while patently refusing to talk to you in Japanese. Some of the other violinists have caught on, speaking to you in English or in very slow and basic Japanese. It doesn’t end up mattering how fluently you reply; but you refuse to give up and speak a word of English in return.

After the second rehearsal, you hear Koizumi calling your name as you trudge down the street. You stop to let him catch up, even though you really want nothing more than to go home and plant your face into Egg’s fur.

“Oi,” Koizumi says. He looks furtively over one shoulder, then the other, as if he’s expecting the police to bust out of nowhere and apprehend him for the crime of talking to you. “Let’s get ramen together, OK?”

The way he’s phrased it, it doesn’t sound like you have a choice. You have no idea where Koizumi falls on the whole sempai-kouhai spectrum, seeing as he’s been in the orchestra longer than you but you’re in different sections. In the end you feel like you really can’t afford to risk offending anyone else right now, so you go with him, texting your apologies to Kaiba that you won’t be able to call him on your way home after all.

Koizumi leads you to a hole-in-the-wall ramen shop about a fifteen-minute walk from the concert hall, passing many perfectly good establishments on the way. You wonder why. It’s not like you mind; he’s the one lugging the French horn around.

“Do you like this place, Koizumi-san?” you venture, once you’re both seated in a tiny booth and he’s managed to somehow stuff his horn case under the table.

“No,” Koizumi says. “The ramen here isn’t very good. Nobody comes here.”

By _nobody_ you suppose he means _nobody in the orchestra._ The proprietor is clearly eavesdropping on your conversation, and doesn’t even seem bothered by the slight.

“Listen,” Koizumi says. He sighs. “I’m sorry. Kao-chan kind of threw you to the sharks, didn’t she?”

It takes you a moment to register that _Kao-chan_ is Nakai Kaoru. You didn’t think she was the type to let anyone shorten her name like that without decking them. You certainly would never dare.

The proprietor brings your noodles, and you stir them around listlessly with your chopsticks. Your appetite is nonexistent - in fact, you feel a little queasy. “Um, no, it’s okay,” you say. “I know orchestras can be a little...” you trail off. “Did I do something wrong, Koizumi-san?”

“You don’t have to be so formal with me,” he replies, flapping his hand at you. “Anyways, no. It’s nothing you did. It’s just that Fukuda was really close friends with the person who was in your chair, before. Almost everyone in the violin section was.”

You sigh. “I see. But it’s not my fault that person left,” you add, a little petulantly.

“It’s not your fault,” Koizumi agrees, “but it wasn’t hers, either. You just have to...just please understand that Fukuda and the others are angry, and they’re directing it at you because they can’t direct it where it’s really supposed to go.”

“What happened?” you venture.

Koizumi shakes his head. “Kao-chan really told you nothing, huh?”

You shake your head miserably. You’re getting the growing sense that you’ve walked blindfolded into an absolute swamp of orchestral and interpersonal politics.

“If Kao-chan didn’t tell you, I can’t tell you either,” Koizumi says regretfully. “And...don’t take it to personally, OK? The fact that Kao-chan can’t talk to you right now. She’s angling for a promotion, and she can’t be seen buddying up to the foreigner. Not until you prove yourself, at least.”

“And what about you, Koizumi-kun?” you ask shrewdly. “What are you angling for?”

“Nothing,” Koizumi says with a shrug. “I’m happy where I am. That’s why I’m the one sitting here eating ramen with you.”

“Secretly.”

Koizumi shakes his head. “I mean, I’m not an idiot. I don’t want to be on Fukuda’s bad side.” He catches the disheartened look on your face. “Look,” he says. “It’s just going to get harder for you, do you understand? Fujimori’s going to drag you to every donor reception, because it makes us look like we’re attracting international talent, even though you didn’t actually audition from abroad. She’s going to push you into the spotlight whether you like it or not, everyone’s going to say it’s just because you’re a foreigner, and Fukuda is going to push that narrative as hard as he can. So to succeed, you’re just going to have to play so well that no one believes him. If you’re not up to the task, I suggest you quit now.”

Even as you feel exhausted and defeated and beaten down, a spark in your chest lights aflame at the challenge.

“I understand,” you say, and the little flame starts to grow.

* * *

You go home, and promptly vomit the little ramen you’d managed to eat into your kitchen sink.

* * *

Your first week passes. You make it through. The concert goes well, and the young conductor from Osaka receives glowing reviews. You feel validated in your assessment of him, and it just makes you more determined to stick with your guns; you know you’re a competent musician and you know you have good gut instincts. All you need to do is convince everyone else of them, and you can’t do that if you’re busy getting caught up in orchestra politics.

“Why won’t you let us go to your concerts, huh?” Mokuba demands, holding Egg in your face, like Egg is the one asking. You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor across from each other, playing with the cat, who is patiently tolerating your nonsense.

“There’s a policy against bringing animals into the concert hall,” you say to Egg, leaning forward to touch your nose with his. “Which pretty much rules out all three of you.”

Kaiba is reading something on his phone, sprawled across your couch, which is rather too small for him. “The concert was well reviewed,” he says, frowning at the screen.

“What if we sit in the back and leave before anyone notices us?” Mokuba says. He sets Egg on his hind legs but keeps hold of his front paws, moving them back and forth to make Egg do a little dance. Egg yawns good-naturedly.

“It’s not that,” you protest. “It’s just...I’ll be playing nearly every weekend. Wouldn’t you rather come for a concert that’s going to be really special? We have this amazing piano soloist coming in-”

“Why would I care about a piano soloist?” Kaiba says, ever the tactful diplomat.

The truth is, it really is _that_. You’re already under enough scrutiny. You don’t need the Kaiba brothers suspiciously showing up for concerts at a mid-tier orchestra when they could probably afford to fly themselves to Carnegie Hall every weekend instead. Suddenly, you wonder if maybe it’s possible for someone to put together your connection with the Kaibas anyways; it’s not like you and Kaiba are discreet about going for lunch or dinner in public, and you’re in and out of the KC building all the time. As a foreigner and a freelancer, it had never mattered before.

“Tell you what,” you say, reaching over to tickle Egg’s tummy. “I’ll just play for you guys whenever you want. Your choice of repertoire. It’s like a personalized concert, and you don’t even have to sit in shitty uncomfortable concert hall seats all night.”

“You’re asking for it, nee-san,” Mokuba says wickedly. “I’m gonna Google ‘hardest violin pieces ever’ and make you play _all of them_. And every time you fuck up I’ll make you start over.”

Sometimes, you’re reminded that Mokuba really is a Kaiba through and through.

“How will you even know if I fuck up?” you point out. “You can’t read sheet music. I could just fake the whole thing.”

“But you’ll know,” Mokuba says, “and it’ll haunt you forever.”

Damn it. He’s right. He knows you way too well.

Since the concert hall has its own practice rooms, you thankfully no longer have to practice in your apartment or impose on Kaiba. You try and explain this to him.

“So I don’t need to bother you with my practicing anymore,” you say.

He has his arms folded and is giving you his _I don’t get it_ glare. You’ve gotten pretty good at telling his glares apart.

“The walls there are soundproofed too,” you explain. “And the rooms are really well-equipped - like, mirrors everywhere, and nice music stands. So I really have everything I need.”

Silence.

“And I can go there any time of day,” you say, feeling a little unnerved by his lack of response. “I have this keycard, see? And there’s a twenty-four hour security guard, so...”

Finally, he speaks. “Why didn’t you tell me you needed a better music stand?”

You sigh. “I don’t, Kaiba-kun. I have a decent one at home. It’s just my travel stand that’s a little unreliable.” Unreliable is an understatement. Like most wire music stands, yours is prone to collapsing when someone breathes too close to it.

The next time you visit the penthouse, Kaiba wordlessly closes a large hand around your wrist and starts pulling you towards the home office. You’re grateful that he can’t see the color rising in your cheeks.

He opens the home office door to reveal that it’s been rearranged; before, his computer setup had been placed in the centre of the room, dominating the space. Now it’s up against one wall, and against the other wall is a perfect amalgamation of every practice room you’ve ever used; full-length mirror, sturdy music stand, a little carpet for you to stand on and a chair for when you need to take a break. He’s even added a small shelf, upon which there is a metronome, spare rosin, and an assortment of pencils.

“Do you need anything else?” he says gruffly. “A piano? A lot of the rooms I saw online seemed to have those.”

“Oh,” you breathe, feeling a little overwhelmed. “Oh, er...no, I haven’t played piano regularly since college...it’s perfect, Kaiba-kun. It’s really perfect.”

Kaiba takes one of your hands, presses something into your palm, and closes your fingers around it. “A key,” he says, his fingers still wrapped around yours, keeping them closed. “Come here whenever. Don’t bother asking.” The gentle pressure of his hand is at odds with his brusque tone, and you feel a slow, steady warmth blooming up from your diaphragm.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you say quietly, meeting his eyes.

He frowns. “I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to. What, was I just supposed to let you spend every waking hour at the hall?”

“I guess not,” you say with a hesitant smile. “Well, now you’re going to have the opposite problem, you’re going to be sick of me.”

“Too late,” he deadpans. “You’re already a plague on my existence.”

“You haunt my nightmares,” you shoot back, grinning from ear to ear.

You suddenly become aware that he still hasn’t let go of your hand. It feels strangely intimate. Your brain races as you try to figure out what friends are supposed to do in this situation - if it were Anzu or Sanada or Honda or Jounouchi, this would probably be an appropriate moment for a hug, wouldn’t it?

You step forward and wrap your arms around him before you can chicken out.

He freezes for a moment, like last time, but unlike last time it doesn’t take him long at all to break out of it and wrap his arms around you in kind.

“Thank you, Kaiba-kun,” you say. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome,” he says in lieu of a sarcastic retort, and there’s a completely unprecedented hint of tenderness in his voice, which throws you off enough that you’re still thinking about it the entire bike ride home.

* * *

You give him and Mokuba each a key to your apartment, too, and every now and then you’ll come home after rehearsal to find one or both of them there; sitting on your couch with a laptop, playing with Egg, riffling through your fridge to either raid it or stock it, depending on the brother, or playing games on your ancient beat-up N64. It makes your apartment feel like a _home_ , in a way that makes your chest ache.

* * *

“Man,” Jounouchi proclaims. “You look terrible.”

You shoot him an offended look. “Dude, _excuse_ me?”

“Jounouchi-kun,” Sanada scolds. “You can’t just say that to a girl.”

“Look at her,” Jounouchi says, grabbing your face between both hands, squishing your cheeks in, and turning you towards Sanada. “San-chan. Take a long, hard gander. This is the face of someone who ain’t got any idea what’s good for them.”

“Excuse me?” you say again, although it comes out muffled because your cheeks are squished.

Sanada humours Jounouchi, and steps forward to take a good look at you. You feel pissed, like you’re a zoo animal behind glass. “Stoppit,” you protest, trying to wiggle out of Jounouchi’s grip. You can feel a pounding headache coming on - you’ve been having more and more of them lately.

“You do look a little pale,” Sanada says, frowning. “Dark circles under your eyes, too. Are you sleeping enough?”

“Clearly not,” Jounouchi says, releasing your face so he can point to your neck.

Sanada grins. “Now what is _that,_ Hermit crab-san?”

“You two are filthy-minded,” you complain. “That’s from my violin.”

Jounouchi bursts out laughing. “Now if that ain’t the stupidest excuse I ever heard-”

You have to Google “violin hickey” and show them a full page of image results before they’ll believe you, which is frankly absurd given that they tease you so frequently about being a hermit.

“But you never had one before, did you?” Sanada says, poking at it gently.

“Nah, it’s always there,” you say. “It’s just a little irritated this week, so I’m trying not to put too much makeup over it to let it recover.”

For some reason this conversation makes you want to pre-emptively explain it to Kaiba, _before_ he can even jump to the wrong conclusion, but he just reacts with a kind of grumpy bewilderment and doesn’t seem to understand why you’re telling him at all.

Your little practice room in the Kaiba penthouse is a godsend, because now you’re not in the position of having to interact with your colleagues any more than necessary, and you take Kaiba up on his offer to come and go even when neither of them are there. Both Kaiba brothers put in extremely long work days. In Kaiba’s case, the time alone at the office after-hours is where he gets some of his most creative and focused work done, and in Mokuba’s case, evenings are frequently taken up by the mandatory dinner-and-drinks outings that seem to be one of the supporting pillars of Japanese office culture. You learn from listening to him talk about it that these are where some of KaibaCorp’s most crucial negotiations take place - personal, interdepartmental, and even cross-company.

More than ever, you’re getting the impression that while the elder Kaiba may be nominally in charge, it’s the younger that has incredible, influential, and largely unofficial power over company dealings. They’re both unbelievably talented businessmen, in entirely different ways, and the two of them combined are an unstoppable force of nature.

Because all three of you have insane hours, sometimes you go days and days where things just don’t line up and you can’t see each other face-to-face, but there are little trails left behind; you never seem to run out of your favourite tea, and sometimes you’ll come home to see Egg’s litterbox freshly cleaned or his food bowl topped up. You learn how to make a fantastic cold-brew coffee that both brothers like and try to make sure there’s always a carafe of it in their fridge, or you’ll leave post-its around the penthouse with dumb little notes and doodles. (Mokuba texts you privately that his brother sometimes even laughs when he finds them, and that he never throws them out.)

It doesn’t really occur to you that you could be leaving other trails until Kaiba straight-up calls you on it.

“Do you bring packed meals along when you come here?” he says, leaning against the doorframe of his office.

You hadn’t even realized he was there, and your bow stutters to a halt on the strings. You turn around and give him a look - you want to give him shit about learning to knock, but this actually _his_ home, so you don’t think you have a leg to stand on here.

“I don’t,” you say without thinking about it, because you have no idea where he’s going with this. “You guys eat my food all the time. Is it a problem that I eat yours?”

“No,” he says. “The problem is that you don’t.”

Wherever he’s going with it, you decide you don’t like it, so you try to brush it off. You turn and put your bow back on the strings. “You’re so weird,” you tease. “What, you _want_ me to mooch off you?”

“Put your violin down and listen to me.”

You comply for once in your life, feeling rather like a kindergartener who’s been caught biting someone on the playground.

“I’m reluctant to have this conversation with you,” Kaiba says, his tone very, very even, “because last time I made the mistake of expressing concern for your well-being, we didn’t speak for nearly a week afterwards. Is that going to happen again?”

“You can express anything you want,” you say, your tone equally even. “But it doesn’t mean that I have to agree with you.”

“All right,” Kaiba says. “Then I’ll stay away from subjective observations, and stick to objective facts. The objective facts are as follows: you sometimes spend upwards of seven hours practicing here, on days you claim to have off,” he says, holding up his fingers and counting down on them. “By your own admission, you’re not bringing your own food, but you’re also not eating anything from our stock - except coffee, which you don’t even particularly like. And at the rate our painkillers are disappearing, you’re taking very regular dosages that are _much_ too large for someone of your size.”

“What the fuck?” is your immediate and incredulous response. “How would you know _any_ of that?”

“Our security system logs all entries and departures,” Kaiba says coolly, “and we have an AI in our refrigerator and pantry that keeps track of our groceries and uses that data to place automatic orders to the delivery service. Admittedly, I only started paying attention to the paracetamol quantities before and after each visit based on a gut instinct.”

“Jesus Christ!” you say, folding your arms reflexively and taking a full step backwards. “You’re _spying_ on me? If I’d known that, I wouldn’t fucking come here.” Your heart is pounding - this is so over-the-top that you can barely even process it.

“What am I supposed to do?” Kaiba says loudly, finally losing his cool. He takes a step forward to make up for your step back. “Tell me. What am I supposed to do if you won’t listen to me when I don’t have anything to back up my observations, but you get angry when I do?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you retort furiously, “maybe just leave me alone to make my own decisions, because I’m an adult? Or literally _anything_ other than massive invasions of my privacy? You are _such_ a hypocrite, by the way, it is fucking astounding-”

“ _I don’t want you to get as fucked up as I am!_ ”

It’s not quite shouting, but it’s close enough that you can’t stop yourself. You flinch backwards so violently that your back hits the wall.

Kaiba’s shoulders abruptly sag, all the tension leaking out of his posture. A hand comes up to cover his face. “Fuck,” he mutters. “I didn’t mean to...”

“It’s fine,” you say quietly, feeling thoroughly humiliated. It’s been a long time since you forgot yourself like that.

“I really fucked this up, didn’t I,” he says, scrubbing his hand over his face. He looks exhausted. “Just...forget I said anything.”

You slide down the wall to sit on the floor, and then pat the spot next to you. “Come here.”

Kaiba folds his long frame down next to you on the floor, though he won’t meet your eyes.

“Why do you look so tired lately?” you say, craning your neck to look at his face.

“Don’t turn this around on me, please,” he mutters, staring at the floor. You’ve heard him say _please_ like, twice in all the years you’ve known each other, so you know he means it.

“Um...” you also stare at the floor, summoning your courage. “It’s been...kind of hard, at the orchestra. There are some politics at play that I don’t really understand. I just want to keep my head down and play well enough that none of it matters.”

This is an understatement, but you don’t think getting into the full extent of things would do any good to alleviate either of your stress levels.

“I understand,” Kaiba says, and you believe him. You can’t imagine the kind of lion’s den he was thrown into when he took over Kaiba Corporation as a young teenager.

After a long moment, he says, “Kaiba Corporation is entering a partnership with Tokyo University to use our nanobots for medical and research applications. It’s a good cause, but...so many levels of government are involved, and there are three separate ethics committees all beholden to different branches, and...” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t realize it would be this complicated to put something good and useful out into the world. It feels disheartening.”

You think you can understand that too, but you’re mostly just glad he told you, so you rest your head on his shoulder and take one of his hands in your own, twining your fingers together.

“So we’re both tired and maybe not making all the best decisions right now,” you say. “That’s fine. We’ll figure it out.”

He lets out a quiet sigh - you can only tell by the movement of his shoulders, really - and rests his head on yours. “We’ll figure it out,” he echoes, tightening his grip on your hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao I'm so sorry I keep making these two fight. I am absolutely writing a nicer, softer Kaiba than usual, but he does still have those knee-jerk trauma responses where he falls back on being controlling and overbearing. But look! They resolved it on the spot this time, instead of passive-aggressively killing each other in video games for days. That's GROWTH babey. 
> 
> Can I just say I'm so pleased and touched that you all actually care about the playlists and orchestral minutiae? Warms my fuckin cold dead heart, it does.
> 
> **Music mentioned in this chapter:**  
> [Beethoven - Symphony no. 7, movement 2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xC-9B6nVdlM) \- This is my favourite recording of this piece and a blatant example of me inserting my own musical opinions into this fic, LOL SORRY. It drives me nuts when orchestras rush this movement. But if you like the piece I encourage you to listen to different versions and find one you like <3
> 
>  **Orchestral terms:**  
>  1\. Orchestras often have _guest conductors_ come and lead the orchestra. Up to two-thirds of an orchestra's concerts per season will be lead by a guest conductor, while the orchestra's regular conductor (Fujimori, in this case) travels around and guests with other orchestras. This is a neat opportunity to an orchestra to showcase talent from around the world, but it can be a little like having substitute teacher: sometimes orchestra members are a little less respectful of a guest conductor's authority ;)  
> 2\. The _artistic director_ is not a member of the orchestra - they are part of the administrative staff, and they plan out in advance for the entire year what the orchestra will play and also what guest conductors and soloists will come and perform with the orchestra.  
> 3\. A _donor reception_ is an event thrown by the orchestra administration for the donors. They're often quite fancy, and are a way to say thank-you to donors for their financial contributions. Musicians often attend these - unpaid, and in their spare time - to go and socialize with the donors and say thank you in person. (Orchestras often want their 'star performers' to attend these events; it adds prestige and makes the donors feel extra appreciated!)
> 
> Once again, thank you so much for the comments. You guys are just so damn perceptive, and I'm constantly surprised and thrilled about the little things you all notice. It's such a joy to chat with you all. How are we doing with the update speed? Let me know if you need me to slow down a bit so y'all can catch up. <3


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one has complained about my insane updating speed this week, so.... ಠ⌣ಠ Bombs away!!

“Ne, Jounouchi-kun,” you say. You’re lying on your backs in the grass at the park, watching the clouds go by. Your bikes have been abandoned nearby.

“Uh huh,” Jounouchi says. He has his eyes closed, possibly drifting into an afternoon nap.

“Do you...” you pause, squinting up at the sunny skies. “Do you feel weird about eating at friends’ houses? Like, raiding people’s fridges and stuff?”

He doesn’t answer for so long that you think he’s fallen asleep.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Lived out of my friends’ fridges when I was a kid. Now that I’m grown up I just never wanna be in that position again. I know you get it.”

You reach over and gently squeeze his wrist. You do get it.

* * *

“First donor reception?”

You’re so surprised to hear someone address you casually in Japanese that it takes you a moment to register it.

Concertmaster Arima Yuki repeats your name, a polite smile on his face. A genuinely polite smile, with no hint of malice.

The Concertmaster is not much older than you are; he’s tall, with boyish good looks and a refined, genteel demeanour. Arima Yuki is popular with the musicians, the administration, the press, and the donors alike. His mild manners are totally at odds with his powerful and expressive violin playing. You suspect that this dichotomy forms a large part of his appeal.

“I’m sorry, Arima-san,” you say, bowing. “I didn’t mean to ignore you. Yes. This is my first.” You notice that he has appended _-kun_ to your last name; it comes across as collegial, rather than the frosty and exaggerated way the other violinists use _-san_ or no honorific at all.

“You look lovely,” he compliments.

You feel confused. You took care in dressing tonight, agonizing with Anzu and Honda on a group video call over the exact right balance between formal, modest, and stylish. Anzu, as a talented up-and-coming ballerina, has had plenty of experience being paraded around in front of wealthy patrons; her advice was to play up your youth, so you’d gone with a pretty floral dress, your hair down in loose curls around your shoulders, and light, fresh makeup. Now Arima’s comment has you second-guessing. You feel like it’s hard to trust anything at face value these days.

But then, Arima is speaking to you in Japanese, and there’s no trace of mockery in his face or voice.

“Thank you, Arima-san,” you murmur. You’ve learned that the less said, the better.

“I know Fujimori-san has asked you to speak in English with our patrons tonight,” Arima continues, “but I wish she’d let you speak in Japanese. Your Japanese is remarkably good. I’m sure they would be most impressed.”

It stings a little that Fujimori is, unwittingly or not, playing into the stereotypes that Fukuda and his cronies have been pushing since the moment you arrived, but you understand. Young and foreign is a novelty, and this is why you were asked to play the reception.

“You’re very kind,” you demur.

Your brain is churning furiously. What is Arima up to? As concertmaster, part of his duty is ensuring harmony in the first violin section, but all he’s done is sit remotely and turn a blind eye to the childish mocking.

“I understand you’ve had some trouble settling into the section,” he continues, reading your mind. “Normally I try not to dictate relationships between my kouhai. Relationships blossom better if they aren’t forced.”

Arima is clearly waiting for you to agree with him, so you nod.

“And yet after several rehearsals with you in a smaller ensemble, I have found you to be consistently well-prepared, conscientious, a delight to work with, and of course a musician of formidable skill.”

“Not at all,” you protest, in the way that unspoken Japanese custom dictates. “I find that my playing has been elevated by working with all of you.”

Arima smiles at you, full and warm. “And such charming manners,” he notes. “With all that said, I must admit that I don’t understand at all the reticence of my colleagues. I suspect there are some unresolved feelings around the departure of your predecessor. In future, I will do my best to ensure that these feelings are dealt with appropriately, so that you no longer have to bear the fallout.”

You feel immediately wary. When Fujimori hand-picked the six musicians to play for the donor reception - bypassing the personnel manager entirely - you were both surprised and unsurprised to find yourself as one of them, sitting at Arima’s side. However, even then, he hadn’t bothered to address you directly during rehearsals; he had comments and suggestions and praise for every individual in the sextet except you. This just made you more determined. You would play the Tchaikovsky perfectly with or without Arima’s guidance.

What was he doing, then? Observing you, before deciding whether or not to you were worth protecting?

It doesn’t matter, in the end. You can’t turn down an ally at this point, and you most especially cannot alienate the concertmaster - your boss, for all intents and purposes. So when he offers you an arm to escort you onto the small raised stage, you take it.

Despite the stressful rehearsal environment, you’ve really enjoyed playing this repertoire again. Tchaikovsky’s _Souvenir de Florence_ is a stunningly beautiful piece of music, oscillating between stormy intensity, lilting waltzes, and soft, lyrical adagios. The first two movements reflect some of the difficulties that the ensemble hadn’t been able to overcome in rehearsal, but in the end you all sail through the third movement confidently, ready for the fourth: the most difficult of all but the most rewarding, hurtling through dynamic ranges and instrumental registers with exhilarated abandon. For the first time all week, the sextet is feeding off each other’s energy instead of dampening it, listening to each other and ramping the intensity accordingly until you all throw yourselves wholeheartedly into the piece’s star attraction: the grand fugue, whose complicated instrumental interplay gives each of you a chance to shine before joining back together into the unified momentum of the concluding measures.

The donors join in a standing ovation, and the sextet stands as one to bow. You all know you deserved it, and that feeling carries you through the rest of the night. You smile and chat graciously with the donors, many of whom speak fluent English; you allow yourself to be escorted here and there by the fundraising staff, who know exactly who you need to talk to in order to make the best impression. You answer questions about your time in New York, Montreal, San Francisco, and the many other places you’ve lived. You throw out charming little anecdotes about parts of Japanese culture you’ve come to love during your time here.

At the end of the night, Arima corners you on your way out the door.

“Well done,” he says, still with that impeccably polite smile. “You’re an incredible asset to this orchestra, aren’t you?”

You notice that behind him, the other members of the sextet are watching your interaction with looks of open hatred.

* * *

_Sogno di Volare_ blares from your purse as you step off the bus. It takes you a moment to adjust your violin case on your shoulder and dig around for it, but you finally manage to maneuvre it up to your ear.

“So? Don’t keep me in suspense.”

You suppose that’s Kaiba’s way of asking how your very first donor event was. You laugh. “Fucking hell. Rich people are exhausting.”

“Is that so,” he says evenly on the other end of the line, but you can hear the amusement in his voice.

“Not you, dummy,” you tease. “Well. You’re exhausting, but it has nothing to do with being rich.”

“You’re delightfully insulting tonight.”

“Thank you.”

“Did the Tchaikovsky go well?”

“Uh huh,” you say. You’d mentioned that the sextet was having a little trouble gelling, without really going into any reasons as to why. “For some reason it just really pulled together around the third movement, and we absolutely killed the fugue.”

“I wish I could have heard it.”

This is a tiny bit of a sore spot; you’d had to all but forbid the Kaiba brothers from making a contribution in order to attend the reception. You were a little worried they’d do it anyways, and then you’d have to pretend you didn’t know them; but ever since your most recent confrontation, Kaiba has been extremely careful about boundaries. In a way you appreciate it. In a way it feels awkward and distant.

“They wouldn’t let me speak in Japanese,” you say, changing the topic. “I had to pretend to struggle with people’s names.”

Kaiba snorts. “I’ll give it to Fujimori - that woman knows her PR angles.”

“Speaking of PR,” you say. “How was the joint comms meeting with Tokyo U?”

“Fucking disaster,” Kaiba says, then launches into a truly impressive rant about the myriad flaws of the university’s communications department.

Listening to his voice rise and fall in the course of his tirade is oddly soothing, unwinding the knot that had been sitting tight in your chest since Arima’s comment and the ensuing reaction from the other musicians. You balance the phone between your ear and your shoulder as you unlock your front door, step in, and tug off your heels.

As you bend down to feed Egg, a sudden and overwhelming rush of dizziness overtakes you. You stumble, catching the edge of the counter just in time; no such luck for your phone, which clatters away under the fridge.

“Fuck,” you groan, sinking to your knees. You clutch your head as you slowly lower yourself to the floor, wedging your hand and wrist as far as they’ll go into the gap under the fridge. It takes you a moment to dig out the phone, and you suppose Kaiba’s probably hung up by now, if your phone isn’t outright broken. Just as well. The paracetamol you’d downed before the reception has officially worn off, and you’d rather just go to bed than deal with the headache.

“Hey. Answer me. What happened?” you hear Kaiba’s voice coming through the speaker, as your fingers finally close around the phone.

“Yeah, hi, sorry,” you say, slumping against the fridge and raising the phone to your ear again. “Egg tripped me and I dropped my phone.”

“You must have done something to deserve it.”

“Why do you always take the cat’s side?”

“Because he doesn’t call me an exhausting rich person.”

“He would if he could talk.”

“Did you break your phone?”

You’ve become used to these dizzying non-sequiturs over the course of your long friendship; Kaiba has never felt the need for graceful conversational segues. You pull the phone away from your ear and check it.

“I dunno. Maybe a new crack or two. It’s hard to tell.”

Kaiba sighs. “Would you just take one of the new KaibaCorp Android models? We literally have boxes of production prototypes sitting around. They’re going in the trash. I can’t understand what _possible_ objection you could have to saving a doomed prototype from the incinerator.”

“You’ve heard my objection and you didn’t listen,” you scold. “I told you, I don’t like owning expensive things. It makes me nervous.”

“You play a twenty-thousand-dollar violin.”

“My violin isn’t a ‘thing.’ It’s my baby.”

You can almost hear Kaiba’s half-smile over the phone. “Are you bringing your bundle of joy over tomorrow, then?”

“Mmhm,” you agree. “Are you gonna be home?”

“Not until later. Make sure you eat the sukiyaki I left in the fridge.”

There’s an awkward silence.

“Okay,” you agree, because you really don’t want into get into the whole thing again.

* * *

You start your day with several hours of practice at the concert hall. The only other person there is Fukuda, who makes a nasty comment about _finally_ seeing you around the practice rooms. You try your best to shake it off and plow through your warmups and études. Once you feel your concentration waning, you pack up your violin and hop on your bike.

On the way to the Kaiba penthouse, you pick up groceries. It’s all the kind of garbage neither of them will eat: cup ramen, mochi, crisps, instant miso soup packets, milk pudding, and the cheapest brand of white rice you can find. It also all happens to be food that’s very easy on the stomach.

Once you arrive you defiantly write your first initial in Sharpie on each food package, then you draw a couple of scary faces on post-its with “DON’T TOUCH” written underneath and stick them underneath what you have now deemed your half of one of the middle pantry shelves. You close the pantry and wait a minute until the AI beeps, registering its new contents on the display screen with its uncannily sophisticated scanner. You take out a package of cup ramen. The AI registers this removal in turn.

Then you fight your way through as much of the noodles as you can before your stomach starts to seriously rebel, and throw away the rest. Because you bought it yourself, the waste doesn’t feel as achingly painful as it would if you’d thrown away, say, half of the sukiyaki.

You head down the hall to the home office and put in a couple more hours of practice, careful not to stay too long before you pack up your violin and bike home again.

There. Solved. By all appearances you’ve practiced a rational number of hours and consumed a reasonable amount of food.

You’re aware this is completely insane. There is no part of you that doesn’t know how fucked up it is. But the most primal, powerful recesses of your brain insist that you can’t get sick right now, the days remaining on your visa are counting down in tandem with the days remaining until the audition, you have to power through, you _have to prove Fukuda wrong_ ; so you don’t really have any other options.

* * *

_I don’t want you to get as fucked up as I am._

It’s interesting to you, and a little heartbreaking, that Kaiba doesn’t know that you’re right there with him.

* * *

“Where on Earth did you get these?” Anzu says, holding up a pair of disgustingly expensive sneakers. “They’re a little big for you, don’t you think?”

You laugh. “No, no. Those are Mokuba-kun’s. He forgot them here last week.”

Anzu squints at the shoes, puzzled. “How do you forget your shoes somewhere?”

“If anyone could manage it, it’s Mokuba-kun.”

“Isn’t that the truth.” Anzu grins affectionately, and lines the shoes up neatly by your door. Mokuba has a tendency to leave his stuff _everywhere_ , and every single person in your friend group has at least one item of his hostage. He never seems to mind, and rarely bothers collecting anything.

Anzu finishes arranging the shoes and then wanders over to your fridge. There’s a post-it note war going on across its surface - a scribbled debate on the best classic DOOM levels - and a doodled Blue-Eyes White Dragon stuck over by itself in the far corner.

“Did Kaiba-kun draw that?” she asks, unsticking it to get a better look.

“Who else?” you snort. “I don’t know why he does that. It’s compulsive.”

Anzu is smiling at the post-it, her expression sort of tender. You’re not sure what it is about the freaking Blue-Eyes White Dragon that has her all misty-eyed, and you tell her so.

“It’s just...” she sticks the note carefully back into its place on the fridge. “Nice to see him happy.”

Your friends will do that every now and again - a very vague allusion to the fact that there was a not-so-distant point when Kaiba was decidedly _un_ happy. And it seems to spread further than Kaiba, too. You can’t pinpoint exactly why you feel this way, but you have the distinct sense that something happened - something involving all of them - and whatever it is, they’re still not one hundred percent past the fallout.

Maybe you’ll ask some day.

“Well,” you shrug, “if tagging my house with dragon graffiti is what makes him happy...”

Anzu gives you a pointed look. “I think you know that’s not what makes him happy.”

You are _so_ not ready for whatever subtext is going on in that loaded pistol of a sentence, so you scoop Egg up and wave him in Anzu’s face. “You’re right. It’s Egg. That’s the only reason anyone comes to my house.”

“Hello, Egg-sama,” Anzu says formally, bowing to him. “Please regard me kindly.” Egg meows his approval.

Later, when you’re sitting on the floor drinking milk tea and burning through YouTube videos on your laptop, Anzu asks you how work is going.

You haven’t said anything about your Minato Philharmonic coworkers to anyone; you really are determined to handle it by yourself. _But,_ you reason, perhaps of all people, Anzu is the most equipped to understand; ballerina drama is every bit as intense as orchestra drama, if not more so.

“Things have been...a little tough,” you admit.

Anzu closes the laptop and gives you her full attention. “What’s going on?”

Once you get past the first few sentences, the floodgates open. Anzu nods knowingly the whole time, in a way that makes you feel so much less alone that a powerful relief spreads through your chest. You find you almost can’t stop talking; the words spill over each other like a stream over the rocks, and before you know it twenty-five minutes have passed with you barely stopping to breathe.

“Well, first of all,” Anzu says, when you’re finally done, “Fuck them. They can all go to hell.”

You’re so startled that you burst out laughing. Anzu grins back wickedly.

“I guess my question is,” Anzu continues, “why do you want this so badly?”

“Mm...” You haven’t really vocalized this out loud to anyone yet, but for Anzu, you’ll try. “I don’t really...tend to stay in one place, for a long time,” you say. “And until lately I sort of thought Japan would be the same, but...”

Anzu smiles warmly, reaching over and taking your hand. “I’m so glad you want to stay here.”

Her expression is so sincere. You can tell she really means it, and you feel an overpowering surge of emotion catching in your throat. A part of you wonders what it means that this time a year ago, you wouldn’t have ever even invited a friend into your apartment, let alone confessed something so close to your heart; and there’s a part of you that knows whose influence you have to thank.

“A salary would be nice, too,” you quip, to lighten the mood.

“Ah,” Anzu sighs, “and _benefits._ When did we get so old and jaded?”

“I know. My college self would be appalled if she could hear me sighing over benefits.”

Anzu smiles at you and shrugs. “We all think we’re going to be the soloist, and then we realize there are only so many spots for soloists, and someone has to play the rest of the parts.”

You roll your eyes. “You are _dancing the lead role in Swan Lake_ right now. How can you say that?”

“Well, look at you,” Anzu teases, pushing your arm. “You little hotshot, being groomed for a tenured position.”

“What do I do, Anzu-chan?” you groan, flopping onto your back and throwing your arms out wide. “My strategy of keeping my head down _isn’t working_ , because Fujimori-san won’t let me keep my head down. She keeps picking me for stuff, and every time she does it, they hate me more.”

“They don’t hate you,” Anzu says. “They don’t even know you. They just hate the fact that you’re not their friend who left.”

“But me leaving the position isn’t going to bring her back,” you argue, as if Fukuda were actually in the room with you.

“I don’t think that’s what it’s about,” Anzu says. “Think about it. If they’re all so angry, something really upsetting must have happened.”

That thought has occurred to you, but you can’t even begin to guess what it would be or how that knowledge would help you. “Does this kind of thing happen in your company?”

“Sure,” Anzu shrugs. “Everyone’s always having affairs, and breakups, and feuds. The arts are corrupt, just like anywhere else. I try not to get pulled into it too much - I’m very lucky to have a strong circle of friends outside of ballet, so any time things get too intense I can spend time with all of you and remember there’s more to the world than the studio. It helps keep things in perspective.”

“Right,” you say slowly. “So...maybe it’s not the end of the world that Fukuda-kun and everyone hate me. So what if they do? I have you guys, and Sanada-chan and...”

“And Kaiba-kun,” Anzu says lightly, but doesn’t press it. “So why are you stifling yourself for their sake? Don’t keep your head down. Keep it up. If they’re going to hate you regardless, you might as well let yourself shine.”

Anzu’s words light that little spark in your chest again - the one you’d been nursing since that day in a dingy little ramen shop, the one that had been so close to going out so many times. But she’s right. Looking down at the ground has gotten you nowhere, so now it’s time to raise your chin and look the world in the eye.

* * *

“Come on, _move_.”

“No.”

You feel like this brief exchange may be Kaiba Seto in a microcosm.

“Nii-sama. You’re being difficult on purpose.”

“Yes.”

Or maybe that one.

“Dude,” you say, throwing your own hat into the ring and completely aware of the futility of it. “I only have one couch. You can’t just take up the entire thing.”

Kaiba shrugs. “Not my fault you won’t let me buy you a bigger one. Now are we watching this stupid movie or not?”

 _This stupid movie_ is Alien, a.k.a. one of your treasured favourite films, and one that you’re about ninety-nine percent sure he’s going to love. You’ll make him eat his words.

Mokuba wedges himself in next to his brother defiantly, as if to prove a point. He looks up at you, clearly counting on backup. You think about it for a second.

Well, whatever. Maybe if you make an extreme power play you can drive Kaiba off the couch entirely, and he can just sit on the floor making his stupid nitpicky movie comments all by himself. You flop down onto the couch dramatically and throw your legs over his lap.

For some reason you were expecting an extreme reaction - maybe he’d vault over the back of the couch to avoid you, or possibly even judo throw you across the room. You know he’s got a closet passion for martial arts and not enough occasion to use his skills. You’re practically handing him this one on a platter.

Instead he just looks at you, a little startled maybe, but also with a determined set to his mouth. Very deliberately, he puts an arm around Mokuba, and a hand on your knee.

“Are you both _quite_ comfortable?” Kaiba says sarcastically.

“Yup,” Mokuba says without hesitation.

He’s outplayed you. Called your bluff. You have to commit. “Yes,” you say. “No asshole commentary out of you. This movie is a classic and you _will_ respect it.”

“Good luck with that, nee-san,” Mokuba mumbles, rolling his eyes as you start the film.

You feel like you and Kaiba engage in a lot of escalating power struggles that land you in increasingly stupid situations. This has to be a standout. You’ve just figured out how to hug this man without sending yourself into a ridiculous blushing tailspin - the key is brevity - and now you’re stuck for this whole movie with your legs over his and _his hand on your knee_. What the _fuck._

On the downside, you can’t focus on the movie, like, at all. On the bright side, you now have one hour and fifty-seven minutes to reflect on why, even after diligently practicing the Sanada-approved strategy of tactile habituation, you can barely manage to brush Kaiba’s elbow by accident without your heart rate picking up.

There is a very obvious answer to this question. You’re completely unprepared to acknowledge it, because of what it would mean about one of the most stable things in your life.

Halfway through your treasured favourite film, both Kaiba brothers are asleep.

“Oh, for the love of god,” you mutter. You know they’ve both been tired - especially Kaiba, whose shortened patience and under-eye circles are _really_ starting to worry you lately - and they both do look rather angelic asleep, despite between twin forces of terror and destruction whilst awake.

Still. The _one time_ you get to pick the movie. You don’t understand how they can sleep through the chestburster scenes. You poke Kaiba’s cheek in irritation. He somehow found a way to be even _more_ annoying than he usually is when watching a movie, acting in his capacity as the world’s grumpiest live Rifftrax.

In response, he removes his hand from your knee. For a moment, you feel unjustifiably disappointed.

“Come here,” he mumbles, eyes still closed, reaching for your sleeve. He tugs you in until you’re pressed against his chest, and then drapes his arm around your shoulders, his fingers brushing your waist.

He’s so solid, and warm, and the smell of cologne and soap drifts around you like an embrace of its own. You hesitate for a moment, then gently lay your head down right where his shoulder meets his neck. You can feel his heartbeat and his quiet, satisfied exhale as you allow your weight to relax into him. His breathing evens out again within minutes. You can’t help the contented sigh that escapes you, or the way it feels like all the leftover tension has drained out of your neck and back.

You think about trying to stay awake for the rest of the movie, just to make a point, but in the end you’re just as exhausted as they are; and more importantly, you’re warm, and safe, and _home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check it out. These two made it a whole chapter without fighting. And cuddling, too! Those DEGENERATES!
> 
>  **Music mentioned in this chapter:**  
> [Tchaikovsky - Souvenir de Florence](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YcY-VN90gv0) \- God I love this piece, in case you can't tell. I linked what is in my opinion the sexiest movement, but the other movements are lovely too if you wanna check them out!
> 
>  **Orchestral terms & tidbits:**  
> 1\. The _personnel manager_ is another hybrid musician/managerial position. They are basically the musician herder, taking care of their schedules and figuring out who plays when. Because Fujimori bypassed the personnel manager and picked the musicians for the reception herself, you can tell that it's very important to her that both the reader and Arima were playing this reception.  
> 2\. The reader's twenty-thousand dollar violin: Kaiba teases her here for owning something expensive, but $20k is actually not very expensive at all for a violin; professional orchestra players will often have one worth $50k or more. To afford a professional instrument, often students can take out loans through their schools to help them pay for it. Sometimes wealthy patrons will gift musicians with fabulously expensive instruments in the hundreds of thousands from their personal collections.
> 
> If I ever use any other music terms you want clarification on, feel free to ask me in the comments <3 You are all so wonderful and I am not worthy. Super looking forward to your feedback. P.S. I'm so curious to hear what y'all think of the orchestra gang so far. Are we digging it?


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think you guys are gonna love this chapter, and I also think you're going to yell at me. (*￣▽￣)b

“Ne, Shiraishi-kun. You think Shachou is gonna come watch this time?”

“I dunno why that guy even hired us again. He seemed to hate us last time.”

“Uh-uh. If Shachou hated us, he would’ve fired us.”

“Are you still on about that, Hasegawa? You know, that myth about Kaiba-shachou firing people randomly probably isn’t true. Things like that aren’t good for a business.”

“The hell do you know about business?”

“More than _you_ , Shimizu.”

You let the chatter of the other violinists drift around you as you warm up, running through a few bars of the first page. You know Kaiba won’t be here, because you know exactly why he’d taken such an interest in watching the proceedings last time, and the mystery of working out your identity no longer applies.

Because word of Kaiba Corporation’s frankly insane rate of pay for musicians has gotten out since last time, the recording orchestra this time is mostly composed of regular members. It also helps that this time the contract KaibaCorp sent over proposed a very reasonable number of services with a promise not to add any more last-minute. You may have had something to do with that. You’d had extremely conflicted feelings about the prospect of another recording at KC, even though Kaiba insisted he had nothing to do with the hiring of the Minato Philharmonic this time around. In the end you’d had no choice but to trust him on that.

The KaibaCorp recordings aren’t all mixed feelings; one unequivocally nice thing is that even though no one in your section will eat lunch with you, you can just disappear up to the employee cafeteria and eat with Yuugi. Neither of the Kaiba brothers are around, because they’re both so frenetically busy with the combination of the nanobot project and the upcoming Christmas launches that you haven’t seen either of them in a solid week. Yuugi is busy too, of course, but he at least seems to remember that he is a human being who needs to consume food at regular intervals to survive.

“Aa~” Yuugi says, stretching his arms up behind his head. “I know my office has windows, but I still feel like I’m seeing windows for the first time all day.” He tilts his face towards the floor-to-ceiling windows of the employee cafeteria, hoping to catch a ray of weak November sun. You know what Yuugi means, but in a more literal sense, because recording studios don’t actually have windows.

“How did the demo go?” you ask him.

“So well!” Yuugi crows, punching the air with his fist. “I’m so proud of my team! This launch is gonna go great, I just know it.”

“It is,” you agree. “I’m so excited to play it!” You think Yuugi might be the best project director ever. His teams manage to by and large avoid the classic video game “crunch;” Kaiba has passionate opinions on how crunch is actually counterproductive, and Yuugi does the work of translating and enforcing that mindset with his teams, carefully managing deadlines and milestones. Yuugi has such a unique blend of skills - an eye for the artistic, a head for strategy, and a flair for communications - that he can step in wherever he’s needed to untangle snarls before they even become an issue in the first place.

“How’s the recording?” Yuugi asks.

You chatter for a while, and then the too-short lunch comes to an end. You notice Yuugi has a stack of protein bars sitting by his tray that he hasn’t touched.

“Bulking up, Yuugi-kun?” you say, grinning and waving one of the bars at him.

“No!” Yuugi says, mock-scandalized by the implication that he’d actually want to work out. “Why would I? I have Katsuya around to lift heavy things.”

You both exchange a smile at that. Jounouchi is everyone’s dedicated heavy-stuff-lifter, including occasionally lifting Yuugi himself when Yuugi can’t reach something. It’s so cute it makes you want to die.

“No, these are for Kaiba-kun,” Yuugi clarifies. “It’s hard to get him to eat much else during busy times. He gets really obsessed with monitoring his intake and avoiding insulin spikes that might make him tired, so he won’t have anything with too much sugar. He’s very careful about salt right now, too. So...” Yuugi gestures helplessly at the protein bars. “This is a brand I know he’ll have, at least...”

“Hmm,” you say with a frown. You’d always known that Kaiba is a fastidiously healthy eater, but that doesn’t sound _healthy_. That just sounds...sort of neurotic, to be honest.

“I know,” Yuugi groans, burying his face in his hands. “I’m enabling him. In earlier years I always tried to talk him into being a little more reasonable during launch season, but he has...ugh. He has all this science jargon on how he’s actually doing what’s _best_ for his body while it’s under a high stress load, and I just don’t know enough about it to really debate him.”

You are _very_ familiar with that feeling. One of Kaiba’s favourite argument tactics is to just completely bury his opponent under mountains of data.

“Maybe you can try talking to him about it?” Yuugi says, peeking hopefully through his fingers.

You laugh out loud. “Yeah, I’ll get right to it, after I convince him to pare his work week back to sixty hours and take up knitting in his free time.”

Yuugi insists on walking you back down to the studio, saying that he needs to stretch his legs a little. On your way, the two of you spot Kaiba. He’s walking with a group of senior executives, engaged in an intense, fast-paced discussion of some sort.

You’re always struck by seeing Kaiba in his work environment. Every single thing about him commands attention and respect, from his tall rigid posture to the way he won’t even spare a glance to people who aren’t doing a good enough job of holding his attention. Even something about the way he walks makes it seem like the rest of the executives are trailing at his heels. He speaks in short, clipped sentences - not that he’s particularly loquacious in regular conversation, except when you set him off on a rant - but in a corporate context it gives the impression that he’s simply not willing to waste more words than absolutely necessary, and that he expects the same of the people around him.

Shiraishi had been correct when he had theorized that Kaiba didn’t actually fire people randomly. Kaiba is occasionally prone to letting his emotions get the better of him - see: going overbudget on a game title by hurling money at the soundtrack rather than just asking his friend which violinist she was - but for the most part his formidable business acumen keeps those instincts well in check.

You kind of love watching him work, actually. It’s like seeing a different side of him that you’re rarely privy to. It’s also, you think, just naturally enthralling to watch someone as extraordinarily brilliant as Kaiba employ his considerable talents - it’s the same sort of feeling you get when you watch grainy old videos of Heifetz or Menuhin in their prime, defining what the violin meant to an entire generation.

That image stays in your head all day - Kaiba blazing a trail in his crisp navy suit, confident and in complete control, with his much-older executives hanging reverently on to his every word - until you receive your next text message from him, which is just: _Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck._

You love seeing both Kaiba Setos in the space of less than a day. The dichotomy never fails to make you laugh, and never fails to spark a rush of affection blooming in your chest.

* * *

You hear your name from behind you, and once again, it fails to register at first. Arima is still the only person at work who addresses you directly, and he doesn’t bother volunteering for things like recordings.

You turn around, surprised when your name is repeated. “My apologies,” you say sincerely, “I didn’t hear you. What’s up?”

“Um...” Hasegawa looks a little awkward, like she’s warring with herself. “How do you know the King of Games?”

You don’t know what you’re more thrown by - the fact that she’s speaking to you in honest-to-god normal, polite Japanese, or the fact that you have no idea how to answer that question because you don’t know what a King of Games is.

“Oh,” you say uncomfortably. “I’m not sure I know who you’re talking about?”

“You know,” Hasegawa presses. “Mutou Yuugi. I saw you walking with him yesterday.”

“ _Oh_ ,” you say again, in realization this time. “Yuugi-kun! Yes, we met a while ago through a mutual friend.”

“Is that where you go for lunch every day?” Hasegawa wonders.

You feel like it would be rather uncharitable to ask where you’re _supposed_ to go for lunch, as no one will actually tolerate your presence, so you just nod instead. “What’s a King of Games?” you ask, even though you know that may be pushing the limits of the interaction.

Hasegawa smiles at this - actually _smiles_ , not sarcastically or mockingly. “It figures that Mutou-san would be so humble that his friends might not know his title. Mutou-san won the title of King of Games in the Kaiba Corporation Battle City tournament, and ever since then he’s continued to make a huge impact on the world of Duel Monsters. He’s mostly retired from Dueling, but sometimes he’ll do sponsorship matches in partnership with Industrial Illusions or-” Hasegawa coughs, looking embarrassed to catch herself rambling.

“So you’re a Duelist, huh?” you prompt, smiling back at her. Domino City’s all-consuming passion for everything Duel Monsters remains an enigma to you, but you’re aware that even casual Duel Monsters enthusiasts view both Yuugi and Kaiba with something bordering on reverence. “I can introduce you, if you like?”

“Oh,” Hasegawa says, looking positively enthralled for a moment, “well...oh, that would be too much, but...”

This is a uniquely Japanese thing - the habit of declining, even though you _really_ want to agree - and you’re prepared to keep offering, when suddenly she shuts up and stares at the floor. “I couldn’t ask that of you,” she says, all the earlier energy gone from her tone. “Let’s work hard in rehearsal.”

This is clearly a dismissal. You look around in suspicion. Sure enough, Fukuda and his cronies are watching the interaction, with none-too-pleased expressions.

You’re just debating whether or not to abandon all decorum and give into your urge to make a horrible face at them when the orchestra erupts in whispers. You glance back towards the front.

Your first emotion is terror, and then your second is annoyance. _What the_ fuck _is he doing here?_

Kaiba is standing there, engaged in quiet conversation with Fujimori and the Minato Philharmonic Administration’s president, Mizuno Natsumi. Kaiba is very carefully not looking towards the orchestra, to your relief; it also doesn’t look out of place that you’re staring at him, because that’s what over half the orchestra is openly doing at the moment.

You hadn’t known that Mizuno would be present. It’s not common to see an orchestra’s administrative staff in the course of day-to-day rehearsals, much less a voluntary extra service offsite, and Mizuno is a very busy woman. As you puzzle through the mystery of her presence, you watch all three of their expressions carefully - you kind of appreciate that unlike the presidents of other orchestras you’ve worked with, Mizuno is decidedly not a sycophant. The way she talks to Kaiba is pretty much the way she would talk to any other employee involved in a partnership.

The other thing you notice is that Kaiba looks exhausted. Maybe not in a way someone other than you or Yuugi or Mokuba would pick up on, but the specific set to his chin and little furrow in his brow act as clear signals to you that he’s struggling through the day.

Everyone’s too terrified to shit-talk Kaiba while he’s in the room - amusing to you, since you shit-talk him directly to his face, all the time - so the second he leaves there’s an eruption of chatter.

“What was _he_ doing here?”

“Damn it. If we have to re-record again I’m going to scream.”

“I’m not gonna scream. The money’s so good...”

“Dummy, didn’t you read the contract? KaibaCorp can’t add any extra services at this point.”

“ _God,_ he’s hot, isn’t he? You agree with me, right?”

“I’m a guy, don’t ask me that...but yes, _objectively_...”

You tune out all of it. All you can think about is that furrow in his brow, and the odd blankness in his eyes.

At lunch, you politely decline Yuugi’s offer to eat together. You find yourself almost on autopilot. After looking around to make sure that none of your colleagues have seen you, you wrestle yourself through a throng of people into the crowded elevator and swipe your keycard for the top floor.

“Ah, it’s been a while since we’ve seen Shachou’s artistic advisor,” one of the secretaries teases. Everyone seems to know that your made-up role is complete bullshit, and no one seems to mind; you get along well with the top-floor admin staff and they all clearly hold great regard for their boss, so they just take his occasional eccentric whims in good humour.

“Did you think he finally fired me for insubordination?” you say with a grin. The other secretaries laugh.

“Go on ahead,” the first secretary says. “Shachou is in his office. He won’t mind if you drop in.”

You open the door to Kaiba’s office a little more gently then usual, then close it behind you.

“I’m busy, Ishida,” he says, not looking up from the ungodly stack of papers that he’s working through. “Just send me an email about whatever it is.”

“But you have my email address blacklisted.”

Kaiba looks up, open surprise written on his face. “It’s you.”

“It’s just me,” you confirm. “Sorry if I’m disturbing you.”

“No, no,” he says, pushing aside the papers. “I thought I wasn’t allowed to talk to you while you were here,” he adds wryly. “Because our association would tarnish your artistic reputation.”

You laugh. An _association_ , is it? Then you fold your arms. “You’re exhausted,” you state, your tone leaving no room for debate. “And stressed beyond belief.”

Kaiba frowns. This is a dangerous topic for the two of you, which normally devolves into mutual accusations of hypocrisy and sometimes outright fighting. “And that warrants a surprise visit to my office, why?”

“I’m not going to lecture you,” you assure him. “I just have an efficient, scientifically-backed stress remedy that I think you should try.”

The apprehensive look melts from Kaiba’s face, leaving amusement with a tinge of skepticism. “I have a meeting in fifteen minutes, but I’m open to hearing your proposal.”

“It’s a demonstration, actually,” you correct. “Come here, please.”

He actually complies without back-talking you for once, which does more to communicate the depths of his exhaustion than anything; this bolsters your resolve, and you close the distance between you and wrap him in a firm hug.

“What are you doing?”

“I told you. This is a demonstration. You need to cooperate for it to work.”

Without further hesitation, Kaiba wraps his arms around you, in a warm and solid embrace.

“Hugs are associated with lowered cardiovascular activity,” you say, “reflected in both systolic and diastolic blood pressure.”

“Do you have a citation for that?”

“Grewen et al., University of Carolina, 2003. Hugs are also proven to release serotonin and oxytocin, with release levels of both peaking around twenty seconds, which in turn lowers cortisol. There is also some evidence that the gentle sternal pressure might have a role in activating the parasympathetic nervous system-”

You can feel the tension draining out of his posture little by little, and he lets out a quiet sigh. “In that case, I defer to your formidable research skills,” he murmurs, squeezing you a little tighter. “What did you say was optimal? Twenty seconds?”

“Mmhm,” you reply, breathing in his scent. “But you distracted me and I lost count.”

There’s a pause. “Are there any deleterious effects to a longer time period?”

“None that have been observed by the scientific method,” you say, smiling into his chest.

“I’ll take the risk, then.” Instead of resting his head on yours, which he usually does on the infrequent occasions you hug, this time Kaiba slumps forward until his forehead is nearly touching your shoulder, his face buried into your hair. You stand on your tiptoes to meet him and start to move your hand in gentle circles over his back.

You hope it’s helping. It’s certainly helping you; the rush of warmth, relief, and peace you feel is almost embarrassing in its intensity.

Kaiba sighs one more time - you think you detect a tinge of regret in this one - and then straightens up. “All right, all right,” he says, releasing you. “I think we fulfilled the requirements for optimal release of neurotransmitters.”

You smile up at him. “Thank you for your careful consideration of my demonstration, Kaiba-shachou,” you say, in as exaggeratedly formal of a tone as you can. “I hope this leads to a productive and mutually beneficial partnership between our two companies.”

Kaiba lets out a huff of laughter. “Spoken like a true professional,” he says. “I do have some critiques.”

“Oh, do you,” you say, raising an eyebrow.

Suddenly the atmosphere in the room shifts, almost imperceptibly; there’s something very intense and focused in Kaiba’s eyes. You feel your heart rate pick up - undoing all of the calm relaxation you’d just achieved - as Kaiba carefully reaches out his hand, and with the tips of his fingers brushes back the hair at your temple, tucking it behind your ear. From there he slides his fingers around to cup the back of your head, and leans in until his cheekbone is very nearly brushing the side of your face.

“Don’t you think it’s a little unfair,” he murmurs into your ear, sending a thrill down your spine, “to introduce something so effective, that I can only make use of when you’re around?”

You want to make a quippy little remark to ease the tension, like _You are aware that you spend most of your day with human teddy bears Kaiba Mokuba and Mutou Yuugi_ , or _There are more people in this building than you realize who would leap at the chance_ , but you don’t. Instead you say, “You know I’ll be there any time you need me, don’t you?”

Kaiba is silent for a moment. You can feel his breath tickling your ear. Then he withdraws, watching you with an expression you can’t quite parse. “I don’t think you know how much...” he shakes his head, and suddenly his usual sarcastic countenance is back. “Get out of my office, would you? Who even let you in here?”

“Get better security,” you shoot back, grinning at him as you turn to leave. Kaiba opens the door for you, and then walks you to the elevator.

“Hey,” he says, gripping your shoulder with one hand and giving you a quick squeeze. “Thank you.”

“I’m not kidding,” you remind him. “Any time.”

A brief smile breaks over his face, and it’s the last thing you see before the elevator doors close; the sight carries you through the rest of the day.

* * *

You’re grateful for the extra pay, but also exhausted and relieved when the KaibaCorp contract ends. You’d sort of been counting on November as a lull in activity that you could use to focus on audition prep before the hell that is an orchestral December, full of holiday donor events, extra Christmas concerts, and of course The Nutcracker, all of which you’re very aware that you have to volunteer for. Now you’re going to just have to make up the extra time, and there’s not much you can do about it.

You share none of this with Kaiba, of course - he has more than enough of his own going on, and you’re feeling more and more worried by the day. On the rare occasions you do see him, he looks pale and drawn, and even his insults have less bite than usual.

On the bright side, ever since your brief chat with Hasegawa, you’ve felt a small but significant shift in your colleagues’ attitudes toward you; the violin section remains mostly aloof, but the English taunting has stopped. This seems to be all that’s necessary for the other instrumental sections to drop their frosty attitudes entirely, and sometimes a brass or low-strings player will even say hello as you pass them in the locker areas.

It’s such a relief that you suddenly realize just how lonely you’d felt at work before, and it’s perhaps this surge of relief, combined with your exhaustion and stress and frustration with your own health, that causes you to make your first big mistake.

The last weekend of November, the Minato Philharmonic has the unprecedented and prestigious honour of featuring Hilary Faust as the soloist for the Sibelius' _Violin Concerto in D Minor_. You wonder, frankly, how the artistic planning department managed it. Faust is more the calibre of artist you’d expect to hear at the Tokyo Metropolitan or even NHK Symphony. Regardless, you’re absolutely thrilled to grace the same stage as her.

You try to explain this to Kaiba, and even send him a couple recordings, to which he responds with a dismissive _It doesn’t sound any better than your playing._ You write him off as a lost cause who will never understand true virtuosity.

Faust is true to her reputation; gracious, punctual, professional, and an absolute dynamo on stage. Her presence energizes you so much that you feel you’re even making better progress with your audition excerpts. Faust doesn’t really linger and chat with the orchestra musicians after the rehearsals, but you don’t hold that against her. She’s clearly saving her energy for the performances.

The first performance goes exceedingly well. Fujimori is thrilled. Even Kaiba sends you a link to a news article absolutely glowing with praise for both Faust and the members of the orchestra.

Everyone is hyped after the excellent reviews, and Faust had clearly been holding back just a little bit the previous night, so the second and final performance is nothing short of _electric._ The final movement of the Sibelius violin concerto makes its stormy, thundering entrance, and then the orchestra settles into a dark march as Faust’s violin waltzes tempestuously overhead. Faust’s solo and the orchestral accompaniment build gradually in tandem, trading off between sweet, clear arpeggios, the trill of flutes, and the ever-increasing march in the low strings; until Faust ushers in the epic, sweeping conclusion, and you all hit the final note with a triumphant flourish.

The audience erupts into cheers, and then into a standing ovation. Faust makes her bows, and then gestures to the orchestra. You all stand as one.

You notice a tall, familiar form standing and applauding in the back row. He’s gone before the applause has finished sounding. When you turn on your phone backstage, you have a new text message, just one word: _Incredible._

You sort of want to kill him for showing up without telling you, but there’s also a part of you that’s secretly deeply pleased. Partly because he now understands the magic of Hilary Faust, but also partly because you hadn’t even known until now that you’d really wanted him to see you on stage.

Every now and then, a guest soloist will forego their hotel room for a few hours on the final night of a concert and go out drinking with the orchestra musicians afterwards in celebration. It doesn’t happen all the time, and Faust isn’t known for being particularly social, but you figure it can’t hurt to check anyways; it would kill you to miss the opportunity to be in her mighty presence for just a little while longer. You suck it up and wander around the locker rooms until you find Fukuda.

Fukuda hasn’t been able to control the other violinists’ gradual softening towards you, and he seems _furious_ about it. He watches you approach with open disdain. You’d been rather hoping that he might just put aside the anger for one night, in light of the orchestra’s triumph, but no such luck. You persist anyways. “Fukuda-san,” you say, with a respectful bow. “I was wondering...if Faust-san might be joining the section to celebrate afterwards?”

“Someone like you should refer to her as Faust- _sama,_ ” Fukuda says. He takes a step towards you, smiling maliciously. “No, Faust-san won’t be joining us tonight. And neither will you. Maybe you can sway others with your pathetic social climbing, but in an orchestra, the only thing that matters is your skill. So I suggest you go home and use this time to practice.” He pats your shoulder. “OK? See. You. Later,” he adds in broken English, before turning and leaving.

You wonder if you look as devastated as you feel. You have no idea what you did to deserve that. What social climbing is he talking about? No one here will even speak to you.

“Um...wow. The fuck is up with that guy?” You turn and look behind you at the sound of Koizumi’s voice. Koizumi and another horn player, Takeda, are standing there.

“Fukuda’s such a dick,” Takeda says, shaking his head. “Hey. You wanna come out with us instead? If you’re willing to associate with... _the brass_ ,” he adds conspiratorially.

“I would like nothing better,” you say honestly. This turns out to be your fatal mistake.

* * *

After the next rehearsal, Concertmaster Arima asks to speak with you privately. He leads you to one of the unused offices in the basement of the hall and has you take a seat across the desk from him. You feel increasingly nervous.

“I understand you decided to celebrate with the brass section after the Sibelius last week,” Arima says, his tone neutral, even warm.

You swallow. Your stomach is sinking with the increasing realization that you’ve fucked up somehow.

“I, um,” you say, flustered despite yourself. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize we weren’t allowed to-”

“You’re allowed to socialize with whomever you please,” Arima says, smiling kindly at you. “We have no explicit rules about that here. I just want to make you aware of something; perhaps something that as a foreigner you’re not quite accustomed to yet. It’s allowed, but very _unusual_ to choose to socialize with a different section, especially when you have yet to spend any time after work with members of your own section. I’m absolutely not going to forbid you. I would just like to _suggest_ that given your bumpy relationship with your colleagues, you put your energies into improving those relationships first.”

Your fists are clenched so hard under your desk that you can feel your nails biting into your palms. “I understand, Arima-san,” you say, as politely as you can. You bow your head, letting your hair fall in front of your face. “I’ll be more careful to follow the rules from now on.”

“Now, now,” Arima says. “Those were just suggestions, and I hope you’ll take them in the spirit of guidance and mentorship that I intended. Now, for the second matter. This one is a little more serious.”

You take a breath to steady yourself, and then look up and meet his eyes.

“I hear that Fujimori-san is disappointed that you chose not to go out with the first violin section, because she believes that you could have made an excellent impression on Faust-san,” Arima says, his face still pleasantly neutral. “Faust-san even remarked on your playing after the first rehearsal, and Fujimori-san had hoped that the two of you would have the chance to connect, especially given that there is a bit of a language barrier between Faust-san and the rest of the section that you may have been able to help bridge. Now, I’m sure Faust-san will be pleased to work with us again, and no _damage_ was done, but I’m sure you can understand the sting of a missed opportunity for a deepened relationship with a renowned artist.”

You suddenly find that breathing isn’t coming so easy. Your head is both spinning and pounding. You can feel your hands shaking, and the edges of your vision seem a little dark. You dig your nails into your palms further.

“Faust-san,” you start, then swallow in an attempt to wet your dry throat. “Faust-san went out with everyone? Fukuda-san said...”

“I know that Fukuda-kun is popular with the section,” Arima says, “but it’s not his job to steward your social interactions. You should be able to join in with the others whether Fukuda-kun invites you or not.”

Even though Arima has never once deviated from his mild tone, this rebuke stings so much that you can almost feel it as a slap across your cheeks.

“I understand,” you say again, but it comes out as barely more than a whisper.

“Are you all right?” Arima says sincerely. “I know it hasn’t been the easiest ride, but you know that we’re all here to support you. Everyone here is invested in your success.”

The pounding in your head reaches a fever pitch. You can barely see straight.

“You don’t look so well,” Arima says, reaching across the table to put a hand on your arm.

You turn and vomit into the trash can.

* * *

Arima calls for a janitor, kneels patiently next to you with a calming hand on your shoulder until you can stand again, and then offers to take you home. You refuse, and spend the bus ride trying not to cry or throw up again.

Arima’s words echo through your mind, ricocheting off the sides of your skull like hammers. _Faust-san remarked on your playing. Fujimori-san is disappointed. It’s not Fukuda-kun’s job to steward your social interactions. The sting of a missed opportunity._

You’re so angry you want to _scream_. Hilary Faust took an interest in you, and you fucking blew it, because you didn’t think to make sure Fukuda wasn’t lying. You didn’t _think_.

You stagger up the steps in your building, wrenching your apartment door open with unnecessary force, then slamming it behind you. It doesn’t register with you that the door is unlocked. You place your violin case as gently as you can manage on the hall table, then lean your back against the door and press your palms into your eyes, taking deep, ragged breaths and willing yourself not to freak out and lose it. You _cannot_ lose it right now.

“What’s wrong?” says an alarmed voice.

You drag your palms away from your eyes. Kaiba is kneeling on your kitchen floor, apparently in the middle of filling Egg’s food dish. You realize with an awful sinking feeling that you’d forgotten to feed the cat this morning. You’re a horrible cat mom, on top of everything.

That’s pretty much the tipping point for the despair welling up in your chest.

“ _I was fucking framed!”_ you scream, and your fist flies out and makes contact with the wall beside you. You can’t really punch hard enough to do any damage, but it hurts, and you start to cry in sheer rage and helplessness.

Kaiba crosses the kitchen quickly and pulls you into his arms. “Okay, okay,” he murmurs. “Shh.”

You can’t _shh_. You cry hysterically into his shirt, even though you know there’s going to be no good way to explain this later. He moves one arm down to loop around your waist and the other to cup your head, pressing you into his chest, and he rests his head on yours. “What do you mean you were framed? Talk to me.”

“I can’t,” you sob.

“All right,” he replies slowly. “Just...get it out, then.”

He still sounds pretty alarmed and more than a little uncomfortable, but you’re beyond caring; you take him up on that, clutching the front of his shirt in your fists in a vain attempt to stop your hands from shaking. He rubs your back in gentle circles. You realize in a hysterical burst of amusement that he’s exactly mimicking what you were doing the other day. For some reason that just makes you cry harder.

When you’re completely cried out, Kaiba - for once in his life - doesn’t interrogate you. He just guides you to the couch, makes you a cup of tea, and sits with you in silence as you drink it. It’s somehow exactly what you need.

“I have a business dinner at seven-thirty,” Kaiba says finally. “I just dropped by hoping I could catch you between rehearsal and...If you’d like, I’m sure I can-”

“No, it’s okay,” you say, giving him what’s probably a pathetic approximation of a smile. “I’m feeling better now. Thank you.”

As he shrugs his suit jacket back on, you groan at the still-damp patch on the front of his shirt. “Fuck. I’m so sorry, I wrecked your shirt.”

“Shut up,” he says, then pulls you into another hug.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“Like you said before. Any time,” Kaiba replies quietly, then presses a quick, gentle kiss to the side of your head. He’s out the door before you can even start to process it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More hugging...BUT AT WHAT COST? Lol, I'm sorry, I know I'm stressing you all out (≧◡≦) ♡
> 
>  **Music mentioned in this chapter:**  
> [Sibelius - Violin Concerto in D Minor, 3rd movement](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3u-unvYedx8) \- You guys. You're welcome, I cut out like MANY sentences of me continuing to describe this piece. It's fucking unreal. Also the violinist in this video, Ray Chen, is amazing - here's a [video from his instagram](https://www.instagram.com/p/CLLNomygTz_/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) where he talks about how hard the Sibelius concerto is (but he's also a total memelord so the video is chaotic as hell)
> 
>  **Orchestra terms & tidbits:**  
> 1\. In this chapter we encounter Mizuno Natsumi, the _orchestra administration president._ The orchestra administration is all the people who work for the orchestra that aren't musicians - marketers, fundraisers, payroll & finance, stage production staff, librarians, etc. As the reader notes, you usually don't see these guys during rehearsal, except stagehands. Any theories as to why Mizuno-san is at KaibaCorp? ;)  
> 2\. The reader mentions that being inspired by the great Hilary Faust (a made-up violinist for this story) is helping her do better on her _audition excerpts._ Audition excerpts are basically small parts chosen from large orchestral pieces that show an audition committee how the candidate handles orchestral repertoire. They're not long - about a minute each - but they're extremely challenging to play, and you typically have to learn about ten to twenty per audition.
> 
> Once again I'm just like...fucking blown away by y'all! I didn't really expect to have any readers, and now I have this comment section gang who chime in with such thoughtful ideas and observations and headcanons that I never would have thought of???? You're all amazing and I love you?????? <3 <3


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was right. Everyone yelled at me. (˘⌣˘)♡ Watching you all savagely trash Fukuda in the comments section has been literally the highlight of my week, thank you all for that.
> 
> I love this chapter and I hope you all do too!

“No!”

Anzu turns around, frowning. “What do you mean, no?”

“You can’t put her in that shade of green,” Honda says, flapping his hand dismissively. “Put that back.”

He’s sprawled across Anzu’s bed decked in a _hell_ of a fit - gorgeously tailored plaid slacks and a button-down printed with an aggressive unicorn pattern, hair perfectly coiffed as usual. Neither of you can argue with him. He’s the _master_.

“Okay, okay,” Anzu grumbles, glancing between you and the green dress, then putting it back in the closet. She and Honda have assigned themselves the task of figuring out what you should wear to the Christmas donor reception.

You’re not really paying attention; you’re sitting in the corner of the room with your violin, trying to be reasonably quiet as you work through a few bars of one of your audition excerpts, that monstrous Schumann scherzo that you’re pretty sure people just put on audition lists to prove that the candidate can handle psychological torture. You trust Honda and Anzu implicitly to dress you for events.

“Why do you keep playing that one part over and over again?” Honda says. “It sounds good to me.”

“Everyone auditioning is going to sound _good_. Good means jack shit.”

“Uh huh,” Anzu agrees, head still stuck in the closet. “She’s right. As Kaiba-kun would say, ‘good enough’ is scrub talk. The arts are brutal.”

“Thank god I don’t have a bunch of jackasses in suits judging me every time I fix a car,” Honda says good-naturedly. “Then again, I don’t get a round of applause every time I finish a repair, either. Hey, speaking of Kaiba.”

“Oh, yes,” Anzu says, in a tone that makes you a little nervous. “Speaking of Kaiba-kun.”

“If you want to shit-talk him, I’m down,” you deflect jokingly. “Our resident jackass in a suit.”

“No, we’re shit-talking _you_ right now,” Honda says, “because you still haven’t invited him to Yuugi’s Christmas party yet.”

You groan, and then screech your bow across the strings on purpose.

“If you don’t behave, we’re confiscating that,” Anzu scolds.

You obediently put your violin back in its case, because you know that Anzu will absolutely follow through on that threat. “Remind me why I’m the one who has to ask him?”

“Because you’re the one in the weird domestic partnership with him that neither of you will admit to?”

You hurl a stray sock off the floor at Honda’s head in a fit of pique.

“I’m just saying,” Honda says, raising his hands in the air. “You guys are practically raising a cat together.”

“ _No!_ ” you protest. “I’m a single cat mother. He’s like, the strange uncle, _at best_.”

“Regardless,” Anzu interrupts, with a warning glance at both of you. “You’re going to be together at the Christmas donor reception that night. This is why we’ve entrusted you with kidnapping him afterwards and forcing him to come to our party. We’ve been over this.”

“I have no idea why you think I can kidnap a trained martial artist who’s twice my size and has armed security,” you grouse.

Anzu gives you a probing look. “You’re still mad at him, aren’t you?”

“Yes!” you say exasperatedly. “Of _course_ I am! I tell him he can’t come to my concerts, he shows up at the Sibelius anyways. I tell him I don’t want him at donor receptions, he makes a fucking donation so he can crash the Patrons’ Christmas event. What is his _problem?_ ”

“Maybe that you have senior executive-level clearance at KaibaCorp and can just waltz in whenever you please, but you won’t let him pay for a ticket to a public concert so he can support his best friend in following her dreams?” Honda says reasonably.

“Yuugi’s his best friend,” you grumble, deliberately missing the point.

“Yeah, no,” Anzu laughs. “Yuugi doesn’t have a key to his penthouse. Anyways, I don’t see the problem, to be honest. Kaiba-kun’s been very discreet, even though that’s not his strong suit. He left the Sibelius concert before anyone saw him, and he only made a donation after speaking with Fujimori and Mizuno personally during the KC recordings and establishing a connection.”

“But...” you feel frustrated. You’d hoped Anzu at least would be more understanding.

“Hey, what about this one?”

“Oh, _damn_ ,” Honda says in approval. “You have to try that on immediately.”

You look at the dress skeptically. “Anzu-chan, that’s a dress for someone shaped like a ballerina.”

“Oh, bullshit,” Honda says cheerfully. “We’ll just pin it if we need to. Stop complaining and go change.”

* * *

The Patrons’ Christmas Reception falls on an unusually cold day for Japan, even mid-December. Kaiba offers you a ride to spare your violin the weather. You refuse and join Arima’s carpool instead.

Kaiba has reluctantly agreed to pretend, for the duration of the reception, that the two of you don’t know each other. You had sort of vaguely explained it as not wanting to garner resentment amongst your peers and accusations of social climbing; Fukuda’s words have still been ringing in your ears this whole time, even though you don’t know what they mean. Kaiba seemed to more-or-less understand when you put it that way, but he also seemed very suspicious that you weren’t being entirely upfront.

Obviously, since you had come home in the middle of an obvious panic attack, punched the wall, and screamed “I was fucking framed” before spending twenty minutes crying into his nice dress shirt. The two of you haven’t talked about that, nor the brief, blink-and-you-missed-it kiss at the end, and that suits you just fine.

“Thank you for letting me join the carpool, Arima-san,” you say, bowing politely before entering the vehicle. You’re the last one of the quartet to be picked up - principal violist Yoshioka Kouta and assistant principal cellist Abe Yuri are already in the backseat. Abe’s cello is taking up most of the extra space, so you suppose you’ll be sitting in the front seat.

“Your hair is beautiful,” Abe says shyly from the backseat. “I can never get mine to curl like yours.”

“Oh, no,” you deflect nervously. “Yours is so lovely and shiny - I’ve always wished for a texture like that.”

This seems to be the right thing to say. You’re really getting the hang of these Japanese praise-deflection tactics.

“What, no compliment for my hair?” Yoshioka teases.

Despite your horrendous faux-pas and the fact that you’d nearly vomited on your supervisor while being disciplined for it, the marked softening between you and your colleagues has continued - with the violin section being the main holdout. You’ve learned your lesson and have politely declined offers from the low strings, brass, woodwind and percussion sections to socialize after work. Once you win over your fellow violinists there will be plenty of time for that later.

The chatter on the car ride is easy, as you all debrief one last time on rehearsal notes and go over which donors will be present. “Remember, Miura-san loves contemporary music, so we’ll send Abe-kun to talk to her about the Hosokawa piece,” Arima says, in his usual benign tone. He has a way of never making anyone feel like they’re being _instructed -_ just gently guided, this way or that.

Arima hands his car keys over to the valet, and you all lug your instruments inside. There’s a couple of hours blocked off in which to mix and mingle - or _suck up_ , as Anzu would put it - and then the musicians will play their set. Then you all get to take off and leave the donors to their fancy dinner, which neatly circumvents the orchestra having to pay extra to feed the quartet members.

The space for the reception has been generously donated for the night by one of Japan’s premier hotel chains. You know Kaiba has stake in this chain, but he swears up and down he had nothing to do with it; and you actually do believe him, as he’s generally pretty shamelessly upfront about his own misbehaviours. The hotel is stunningly luxurious with a modern-art-meets-shibui aesthetic, all wood floors polished to an impossible sheen, starkly minimalist design with sculpted accents, wood screens and creamy, natural colours. One of the staff takes all your coats, and another takes your instruments to a more secure locked area.

“My god,” Yoshioka says, glancing at you and Abe sans coats. “You two are making us look bad.” Abe is wearing an exquisite dark-green gown, and she looks so simultaneously delicate and elegant that it makes your heart leap a little. She’s truly the archetype of classic Japanese beauty, and she’s chosen the perfect slightly avant-garde cut and colour to both play that up and subvert it just a little. This clearly isn’t her first rodeo.

Your dress, on the other hand, is what Honda had deemed an _I’m not fucking around_ dress. It’s a shimmery champagne-coloured fabric bordering on gold, crafted from layers of sparkling metallic chiffon over a satin base, and it glitters outrageously whenever you catch the light. The skirt is a graceful A-line cut, and the bodice is perhaps the most striking part; a high, modest boat neck with cap sleeves in the front, but almost entirely backless. Anzu had arranged your hair in a half-updo with curls cascading over one shoulder to emphasize the cut of the bodice. She had assured you that donors adored this kind of outfit - stylish and just a little risqué - and that more importantly, it would communicate loud and clear to your colleagues that you were done keeping your head down and taking their shit.

“You two take the west side of the room,” Arima suggests, “and we’ll take the east. I know that Nakai-kun and Fukuda-kun are here too somewhere, so let’s try to make sure we’re not overlapping with them too much, ne?”

Yoshioka grins and salutes, then offers Abe his arm and they wander off. Arima leans in towards you. “You look absolutely captivating,” he says, close to your ear. You resist the urge to flinch back and take his offered arm. You don’t know why you feel so jumpy. Arima has been nothing but kind to you.

“Oh, one last thing,” Arima says, just before you step into the crowd. “I heard that you’re close to Kaiba Seto. He’ll be in attendance tonight, so let’s make sure we talk to him, ne?”

“Pardon?” you say, carefully keeping your face blank. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t be modest,” Arima says, and it feels like an extremely gentle reprimand. “Fukuda-kun said that he saw you together during the recording at Kaiba Corporation, and that the two of you seemed very familiar. Of course, I would never ask you to leverage a personal friendship for your job, so I understand why you didn’t say anything, but...”

“Arima-san!” a group of middle-aged women is calling, waving enthusiastically. “Arima-san, over here!”

“Ladies,” he says graciously, and puts his hand on your shoulder to guide you towards the group. “Have you met our newest violinist? We’re so lucky to have such a talented addition - in fact, Hilary Faust remarked on...”

And then you’re off to the races. Arima has it all down to a science - exactly how much time to spend with each group, the precise musical interests of every donor, when to make light jokes and when to remain scrupulously formal. You observe Fukuda and Nakai moving in parallel to you. Fukuda is brilliant with the donors but in an entirely different way - he teases and flirts with everyone, from young women to old men, and Nakai plays the straight man at his side, rolling her eyes gently and saying “Oh, _Fukuda-kun_ , you’re impossible,” in that charming way of hers. It never fails to garner a laugh.

Briefly, you intersect with Yoshioka and Abe, as all four of you congregate within a larger circle of conversation. Abe leans over towards you. “Kaiba Seto has been looking at you all night,” she whispers, with an impish grin. “I think he’s quite taken with you.”

“How do you know he’s not looking at Arima-san?” you tease. “Of the two of us, Arima-san is the prettier one.”

Abe laughs at that - Arima’s fine, delicate good looks are one of the things that makes him such a hit with the donors - and then you’re guided away again. You mentally resolve to kill Kaiba for not being able to keep his stupid eyeballs to himself. He _promised_ you he’d be discreet.

Arima has kept your hand looped through his arm the entire time, with one hand clasped over yours. It all looks very elegant from the outside, but it sort of feels like he’s trying to keep you from escaping - like you’re an errant little kid whose father insists on holding her hand during a street crossing. You can tell he’s herding you towards Kaiba, and you try to take some deep breaths to quell the rising nausea and headache that are rapidly overtaking you.

Just before you reach Kaiba, Arima for some reason switches positions; he lays a hand in the middle of your back. It’s so startling that you have to fight back the urge to wrench away. It’s not like his hand is anywhere obscene - but although you have no idea what the Japanese etiquette is for touching someone in a backless dress, you’re sure this isn’t it.

“Ah,” Arima says cheerfully to the assembled donors, “I see you’ve all met Fukuda-kun and Nakai-kun.”

Fukuda and Nakai are hamming it up, doing their routine. Everyone’s enjoying it except for Kaiba, whose superpower is looking unimpressed. You allow yourself to really look at him for the first time tonight.

You can see why a group of donors have clustered around him; tonight in his formal tux, Kaiba looks strikingly tall and handsome. He’s chosen a shade of midnight blue that’s so dark it’s nearly black, offset with a pale silver-and-cobalt pocket square and cufflinks. The whole effect accents his eyes, making them look even more of an arresting blue than usual, and the cut of his suit draws attention to his broad shoulders and lithe build. For a moment, you totally forget everything - the nausea, the headache, Arima’s hand on your back, Fukuda carefully pretending not to see you - and just let yourself study his face. It’s so familiar to you that it feels like a respite.

“Oh, we all know Fukuda-kun quite well, don’t we,” a very old man says, winking at Fukuda. “Now, who’s this? I’ve yet to meet this one.”

“This is our brilliant new violinist,” Nakai chirps, giving your name. “Fujimori-san was quite keen for her to join the orchestra, and with good reason - I hear that Hilary Faust recently praised her playing. Ne, Arima-san?”

Kaiba can’t help a brief glance at you - you hadn’t told him about Faust’s comment, partly because it feels like such a punch in the gut every time someone brings it up. Especially in the context of parading you around like a show pony.

 _Actually,_ you _were keen for me to join the orchestra,_ you think spitefully in Nakai’s direction, _and then you threw me to the sharks and abandoned me._ Instead, you smile graciously at her and demur as you’re expected to.

As the conversation rolls on around you, you find with mounting relief that Kaiba is doing an absolutely excellent job of pretending he doesn’t know you. He doesn’t ignore you - that would be conspicuous - but he’s careful to divide his attention evenly between you and the other musicians. He also makes several comments on recent concerts that give the impression he’d actually attended them. He hadn’t - he’s just parroting things you’ve said about the concerts, with astoundingly ballsy confidence - but you appreciate the effort to make it look like he hasn’t just appeared on the classical music scene out of absolutely nowhere.

Arima keeps looking between you, Kaiba, and Fukuda. His expression remains charming and polite, but you and Fukuda can both tell that he’s confused by the lack of interaction between you and Kaiba, and silently asking both of you why. Fukuda is starting to look annoyed, glaring at you as if he wasn’t the one to rat you out. You carefully avoid both their gazes. Maybe you can sidestep this whole mess entirely.

“Kaiba-shachou,” Arima says, finally. “It’s such a pleasure to see you tonight. It’s always wonderful when tech companies broaden their interest to include the arts. Might your recent interest in classical music have been fostered by your friend here?” He moves his hand up from your mid-back in order to squeeze your shoulder.

Kaiba watches this gesture without reacting, although you can tell by the slight narrowing of his eyes that he is _very_ displeased. “Excuse me?”

“Well,” Arima continues, his hand tightening on your shoulder, “we’re always proud when members of our orchestra are ambassadors for the arts community, and your friend in particular has a remarkable talent for-”

“I’m afraid we haven’t met before tonight,” Kaiba says coolly. “My interest in classical music comes from my brother.” Mokuba is well-known in philanthropist circles for donating to arts, among other causes, so it’s an excellent sidestep.

“That’s not true,” Fukuda blurts, and then looks absolutely horrified at himself.

“Isn’t it?” Kaiba says, fixing him with an icy glare.

Nakai quickly draws the attention of the other donors in the group by snagging Abe as she walks by and making a big fuss over her dress. You have to admit, she’s an absolute pro.

“I...” Fukuda clears his throat. “I saw you together at Kaiba Corporation, while we were recording. On the top floor. You looked like close friends.”

You’re frankly astonished - first off, that Fukuda somehow managed to sneak into the elevator and follow you, and second that he’s _admitting it to the CEO of KaibaCorp_ , when there is _no_ way he would have been allowed on the top floor.

Kaiba regards him for a moment longer, his expression inscrutable. You frantically try to communicate with him telepathically - _don’t tell, don’t tell, don’t tell,_ and also _don’t lose it on my co-worker, don’t lose it on my co-worker._ He doesn’t look at you. You have no idea what he’s going to do. Your heart starts to pound in tandem with your head.

“Ah, I see,” Kaiba says, his tone bordering on pleasant. The effect is terrifying. “Now that I think about it, she does bear a rather striking resemblance to a longtime business partner of mine. I can understand the confusion.”

Fukuda deflates.

“The top floor is protected by keycard access,” Kaiba continues. “So if you were accidentally deposited by the elevator onto the wrong floor while trying to get to the studios, I would ask you to submit a report through the contact form on the KC website, and we’ll have that error attended to immediately.”

You feel like you might cry with relief.

“Although,” Kaiba says, apparently not done yet. “If she’s as good of an ambassador for the arts as you say...” he turns to you, with just a hint of a smile. “I’d love to get your opinion on Borysov’s interpretation of the Bruckner symphony,” he finishes, referencing last week’s guest conductor. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all,” you say.

“We’ll leave you to your discussion,” Arima says with a gentle laugh. “I’m afraid my comments on Bruckner’s seventh won’t be nearly as insightful as hers.” He releases you, finally, and then gestures for Fukuda to follow him. Fukuda does, looking miserable.

God _damn_ he is good. Not only has Kaiba deflected the entire issue in a face-saving way for everyone involved and set the groundwork for further interaction with you, from Arima’s perspective it must look like Fukuda’s blunder had inadvertently brought you and Kaiba closer together. You suppose you shouldn’t be surprised that Kaiba can be a skilled diplomat when he wants to be - he just apparently doesn’t want to very often.

The other donors are still being entertained roundly by the endearing combo of Nakai and Abe, so Kaiba chances a step closer to you.

“Why the fuck is that guy so invested in taking you down?” he says in English, barely above a murmur.

“I have no fucking idea,” you reply pleasantly, also in English, keeping your talking-to-donors smile firmly plastered on. “I wish I knew.”

“I’m staying for the dinner.”

You blink at him, then shuffle your mask back into place. “You’re what?”

Kaiba hates socializing with other philanthropists, even more than he hates every other kind of socializing. ( _Masturbatory nonsense,_ as he’d once charmingly put it.) You’d thought he would just skip the dinner entirely rather than subject himself to an hour of horrific small talk where he’s trapped in a chair and can’t escape conversations that annoy him.

“The concertmaster is keeping a close eye on you, isn’t he?” Kaiba says. You feel stung, and embarrassed by the fact that he’s observed this, but you nod. “So it’s going to look strange if we leave at the same time. You go ahead to Yuugi’s party. Make sure my brother takes it easy with the spiked eggnog.”

Mokuba is actually already at Yuugi’s, pre-gaming with Yuugi and Jounouchi while they build gingerbread houses, but Kaiba doesn’t need to know that.

“You’re coming though, right?” you press. “To Yuugi’s?”

Kaiba shrugs.

“Yes,” you insist. “You have to. It’s mandatory.”

“Says who?” Kaiba snarks, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “The nerd herd?”

“No. Me. I say it’s mandatory.”

“Why?”

You can’t help it - you smile up at him, wide and genuine. “Because I really want you there. Things are just better when you’re around.”

Kaiba is completely taken aback, and for once in his life at a loss for words. You hadn’t really meant to do that, but you can’t bring yourself to regret it - damn it, Honda’s right, he’s your best friend, and he deserves to hear things like that. He’ll just have to get used it.

* * *

The performance is, you feel, a little strange. It’s not like anyone screws up or anything. The first two movements of Borodin’s _String Quartet no. 2_ pass by without incident - in fact, in Abe’s brilliant hands, it’s one of the more beautiful renditions you’ve participated in; a passionate cellist is a must for this piece, and Abe’s tender, expressive playing is the perfect fit.

When the shining star of the piece arrives - the third movement, the Nocturne - all goes well at first. Abe’s cello sings out the theme in glorious, heartbreaking solo, and it’s so breathtaking that it carries the rest of you through to the tempo change; your first duet with Arima is fine, and the two of you manage to balance your powerful playing styles easily enough. But when your second duet arrives, heralding the last portion of the movement, it starts to feel oddly tense in a way that had never been present in rehearsals. Arima attacks his part with a strangely robust, brilliant sound that you rarely hear from him, and you’re forced at the last second to decide if you’re going to match it or stick to the mellower sound you’d adopted for rehearsals.

You match it. As the two of you trade the melody back and forth, it starts to feel a little like a battle; like you’re fighting for the upper hand. By the time Yoshioka’s final solo comes, it comes across like a rebuke, the viola’s low tones signaling that it’s time to come back together and let Abe carry you through to the end.

You peer apprehensively out at the donors as they applaud, wondering if anyone else picked up on it. By the smile on Kaiba’s face, you’re guessing not, and you can’t help but smile back.

Backstage, after his duet with Nakai, Fukuda doesn’t even bother hurling another dig at you as all the musicians pack up to leave. He looks thoroughly chastened.

You decline Arima’s offer to drop you off, explaining that you’re going to a friend’s house. But you don’t go. You wait in the lobby, sitting in an uncomfortable modern-art chair for an hour and a half, until the donors start to trickle out post-dinner.

“You’re such an idiot,” Kaiba says, towering above you with his arms folded.

“That’s part of my charm,” you reply, grinning back up at him.

Kaiba sighs. “Unfortunately. Now let’s go.”

* * *

When the door opens to admit you to the Mutou residence, you’re met with an extremely loud wolf whistle. “God _damn_ ,” Jounouchi says, “you two clean up real nice, don’t you?”

“Shut the fuck up, Jounouchi,” Kaiba says.

“Go to hell, Kaiba, you insufferable prick,” Jounouchi replies cheerfully, and steps back to let you in.

Anzu flies directly past Jounouchi and slams into you, in a hug that nearly knocks you over. “How did it go?” she demands. “I told you, right? That’s an _I’m_ _not fucking around_ dress!”

“Don’t steal my intellectual property,” Honda calls from the couch.

“Kaiba-kun!” Anzu says happily, ignoring him. You can tell that she’s already well into the spiked eggnog. “You came! I’m so glad!”

“Hn,” Kaiba says. “Where’s my brother?”

“Nii-sama!” Mokuba bellows, coming charging down the hall after Anzu. Kaiba sidesteps him and then catches him around the shoulders with one arm.

“Behave yourself, for god’s sake,” he says, but everyone can hear the undercurrent of fondness.

You notice, watching Kaiba make his way around and drift from conversation to conversation, that he’s actually genuinely comfortable with everyone at the party. It’s not like he smiles or eases up on the cranky attitude and insults. It’s just something about the set of his shoulders - the way he rolls his eyes - it’s distinctly different from Kaiba in just about any other setting. He seems...relaxed, somehow.

Not for the first time, you wonder what all of these people went through together. Such a disparate group - there’s really nothing someone like Mai should have in common with someone like Shizuka, but they’re obviously close, and it’s the same with Otogi and Bakura, Honda and Mokuba, and all these combinations of people you never would’ve placed together in a million years, but there’s clearly something tying them together.

You don’t feel like an outsider - you feel so, so lucky that you’ve been allowed to join in.

“You should ask Kaiba-kun someday,” Anzu says in your ear, reading your mind. “Ask him about our friend Atem. Maybe not right away, but I think he’ll want to tell you.”

“Okay,” you say, leaning your head on her shoulder.

The night marches on. Jounouchi and Kaiba end up in a hyper-competitive video game deathmatch. Yuugi breaks it up and insists on cheesy Christmas movies instead. Honda goes around surreptitiously eating pieces off all the gingerbread houses until it becomes very clear they’ve been under attack. Shizuka and Mai curl up together by the adorable fake fireplace Yuugi has rented, and then Anzu joins in, laying her head on Mai’s lap. Bakura and Mokuba play cards - not Duel Monsters, just regular gin rummy - in the corner, while you and Otogi watch. It feels like something out of a magazine catalogue, but it also feels so unique to your friends, and the resulting familiarity and coziness brings that recurring profound ache to your chest. You want to slip out the back door and go home to escape the ache, and you want to stay forever because you feel like you already are home.

You stay. Maybe you wouldn’t have, a year ago.

“Hey, nee-san,” Mokuba says absently, flipping a card to the discard pile.

“Mhm?” You and Otogi are sort of half paying attention, but also half focused on the cheesy Christmas movie playing on the TV on the other side of the room.

“You should try calling my brother by his first name.”

You’re sleepy and content and definitely a few glasses of eggnog in, but this wakes you up. “What? Why?”

Kaiba actually does call you by first name occasionally, but you’d assumed it was in the dismissive, casual-bordering-on-rude way. Mostly he refers to you as “you” or “idiot.” It had never occurred to you that anyone other than his brother was actually allowed to use his first name.

“I think it would make him happy,” Mokuba says. “Oh, man, again, Ryou?”

Bakura laughs, and reveals a perfect hand. “For what it’s worth,” he says, smiling shyly at you, “I think Mokuba-kun’s right. You two are very close, aren’t you?”

Coming from Arima, that observation had felt like a threat. Coming fom Bakura it sends a warm bloom through you.

“Well,” you tease, squeezing Mokuba’s shoulder affectionately, “if your brother wants me to call him by name, why doesn’t he just ask me?”

“He doesn’t know how to ask for things like that,” Mokuba says, with a heartbreakingly sweet smile.

* * *

You’re absolutely exhausted - you hadn’t realized just how tense you’d been during the reception, and the draining tension combined with a long day and maybe a little too much eggnog has left you feeling shattered. You make your way over to where Kaiba is sitting on the couch, wedged grumpily between Yuugi and Honda, and put a hand on his shoulder as you lean down to speak in his ear.

“I’m going, okay?” you say quietly. “I’ll see you later.”

Kaiba glances up at you, and he looks a little flushed, maybe from the alcohol. “I’ll walk you.”

“You don’t need to do that,” you say with a smile.

“Would you just stop arguing with me for once in your life?” Kaiba says, rolling his eyes and moving to stand up.

“Are you leaving?” Yuugi asks, looking between the two of you. “It’s still so early!”

It’s one in the morning, so not _early_ exactly, but Yuugi is the most extroverted person you’ve ever met and can easily keep a party going until dawn. You smile fondly at him. “Long day, Yuugi-kun.”

“I’ll be back,” Kaiba says. “Just walking her home.”

Yuugi smiles at that, and waves you off.

It’s been snowing steadily all evening, and your heels, though short, are not exactly suited for crunching through the snowy sidewalks. Kaiba wordlessly offers you his arm and you take it. It feels oddly amusing - like you’re one of those fancy wealthy couples promenading through the streets in your finery after an evening of merriment. Which is sort of true, minus the couple part. You start laughing, struck by a powerful mental image of Thomas and Martha Wayne. Hopefully you don’t become a superhero origin story. You’re basically asking for it at this point.

“What the fuck is so funny?” Kaiba says, but you notice that he’s smiling, too.

“I don’t know,” you giggle.

“Dumbass.”

“Nerd.”

“Uncalled for.”

You lean your head on Kaiba’s shoulder as you continue down the street. The streetlights are casting a golden glow on the snow and the swirling flakes all around you. It’s really beautiful - you love cities at night in all weather, but in the winter especially.

“I don’t like that concertmaster of yours,” Kaiba says, all of a sudden.

“Hmm?” you say, only half paying attention. “What’s wrong with Arima-san?”

Kaiba is not as enthralled with the lovely scenery as you are - in fact, he’s glowering at it. “I just don’t understand why he feels entitled to manhandle you. He’s your boss. It’s inappropriate. Are the rules different in arts workplaces?”

You laugh. “I guess so. Don’t mind Arima-san. He always looks out for me.”

Kaiba scoffs. “Oh, I’m sure he does.”

You can’t really get into the whole thing without explaining that Arima is one of your only allies in a profoundly hostile work environment, so you just squeeze Kaiba’s arm. “Thank you for coming tonight, Seto.”

“Hn. You’re welcome, despite the fact that you expressly forbid me from-” Kaiba cuts himself off, abruptly registering the rest of your sentence. You’re not quite at your building - a few more steps away - but he stops walking.

You look up at him. There’s an expression you’ve never seen on his face before - his eyes are wide and unguarded, and a pink tinge is blooming across his cheeks. You’re struck by the fact that he suddenly looks much younger.

“Is it okay that I called you that?” you ask meekly, feeling self-conscious.

He turns to face you, gripping one of your shoulders; the other hand comes up to cup the side of your cheek. His fingers are cold, because he wouldn’t listen when you told him to wear gloves. You bring your mittened hand up to cover his. He leans in and rests his forehead against yours.

You stay like that for a long moment.

“Yes,” he says, his voice low and husky, and his eyes filled with an emotion you can’t place.

You carefully place your hands on both of his shoulders, raise yourself up on your tiptoes, and press a gentle kiss to his cheek.

“I’ll see you soon,” you murmur, then release him and step back. The look on his face is suddenly too much for you to handle, so you turn and quickly cover the rest of the distance to your building. When you look over your shoulder one last time after stepping into the lobby, you see that Seto hasn’t moved at all.

* * *

The first thing you do is gently set your violin case on the hall table. The second thing you do is sink to your knees, scoop up Egg, and press your face into his soft fur.

You start to cry.

Your heart hurts because you desperately miss MajorKusanagi896. You miss the warm, solid, simple stability - the first real stability you’d ever had in your life, if you’re being honest. You’d tried to pretend that Kaiba could fill that role for you, tried to keep putting him in boxes and contain his influence on your life so that you could pretend things would always just stay the same. You were wrong, of course, and now he’s _Seto_ \- you hate to admit it, but he has been for a while - and you’re finally forced to acknowledge that MajorKusanagi896 is gone forever. It’s so confusing and strange to grieve a screenname, especially of someone you know in real life, but you know that what you’re really grieving is what he represented to you: an easy, uncomplicated, ever-present friendship that didn’t demand much of you but provided you with so much more than either of you ever realized.

He’s not your online friend anymore. He’s Seto - the person you laugh with, cry with, the person you’re most comfortable with, the person who welcomed you into his tiny family with open arms, because even though you’ve never told him you know he’s sensed that even he has more family than you do. Seto is still the person you play online games with but now it just means something different - it’s just a small part of your life together, and you know now that you can throw socks at Honda all you want but you can’t deny it anymore. Your life is inextricably entwined with his. And that means you also have to admit that your life is entwined with Anzu’s, and Jounouchi’s, and all the rest of your friends. You can’t just run away anymore.

“I guess Japan is home now, huh, Egg?” you sniffle into his warm tummy.

What you mean is that Seto and Mokuba are your home, but you’re not ready to say that out loud just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SELF AWARENESS!! (After eleven chapters and 50k words. But. You know. She's trying. LOLOL) Shoutout to Honda, who TELLS☆IT☆LIKE☆IT☆IS
> 
> I needed a little break from writing yesterday, and just the world in general. So I drew you guys some art. Is it sad to illustrate your own fics?? WHO KNOWS, but have some [Kaiba and Egg.](https://sempect.tumblr.com/post/644168850402836480/theyre-judging-u) This was also the kick in the butt I needed to make myself a YGO artblog. We'll see if I actually keep up with it, lol.
> 
>  **Music mentioned in this chapter:**  
> [Borodin - String Quartet no. 2, Nocturne](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oQHBbhMwaK4) \- YOU GUYS. If you listen to ONE piece of music from this fic, have it be this one. It's so outrageously beautiful. The composer wrote it as a love letter to his wife - he's represented by the cello, and she's represented by the violin. It actually works well as a soundtrack for the latter part of the chapter too!
> 
>  **Orchestral terms and tidbits:**  
>  NONE. You're all caught up. You know everything. I'm so proud ಥ_ಥ
> 
> P.S. You guys. ONE HUNDRED FIFTY COMMENTS??? I know half of those are me but STILL????? I am verklempt. You're all the BEST.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys. I had a fucking blast writing this chapter. I just wanted you all to know that.

You get a flood of sweet, well-meaning text messages from your friends as Christmas starts to draw closer, each inviting you to spend the holidays with them and their families. You thank all of them and explain that you already have plans.

You do, but it’s not spending the day with the Kaibas like everyone assumes. You plan, very deliberately, to spend the day by yourself and just relax.

“Nii-sama and I don’t really celebrate Christmas,” Mokuba says offhandedly. The two of you are making hot chocolate at the penthouse using terrifyingly expensive chocolate, and you’ve already managed to fuck it up twice. Kaiba - _Seto_ isn’t around, which is probably for the best, as the kitchen being a disaster tends to stress him out.

“Neither do I,” you confide. “For me it’s like...a regular day off. Or something like that.”

“Yeah!” Mokuba says. “Exactly. It just feels pointless, so we usually spend the day watching shitty movies or sleeping.”

“Oh,” you tease, “so that’s when you two catch up on sleep for the rest of the year.”

“What do you do? You don’t just sit there by yourself all day, do you?”

“What’s wrong with sitting there by myself all day, huh? But, no, I just do whatever I’d do on a regular day off.”

Mokuba nods knowingly. “People from normal families don’t really get it. Whenever you tell them stuff like that it’s all, _oh my god, that’s so sad, come spend the holidays with us,_ blah blah. Ugh. Bullshit.”

“Exactly!” you say, jabbing your stirring spoon in the air. “Bah humbug!”

Mokuba laughs. “For someone who’s not into Christmas, you’re _really_ into Christmas stories and movies and gingerbread houses and hot chocolate and-”

“Shut up, insolent youth,” you retort. “This is the one time of year I can con people into watching sappy movies and making liquid candy with me. I’ll take advantage of it all I want, thank you very much.”

“Come do nothing with us on Christmas.” Mokuba gives you one of his most angelic smiles.

“That may work on your brother,” you say, brandishing your spoon, “and it may also work on me about ninety percent of the time, but...”

“But what?” Mokuba presses. “Come on. It would make nii-sama really happy.”

“You said that about calling him by his first name.”

“I mean. That did make him happy, though, didn’t it?”

Well, _no_ , not _exactly_ because it had resulted in some kind of emotional overload that had short-circuited both you and Seto for days and you could barely talk to each other, but you can’t figure out where to even start explaining that. You feel a blush creeping over your cheeks, against your will.

“God, you two are _ridiculous_ ,” Mokuba says exasperatedly, but he doesn’t elaborate on that, thank heavens. “Anyways, just come. Bring Egg. We can actually finish watching Alien this time. It’ll be great.”

Seto texts you that night asking what time you’re coming, before you’ve even agreed to it, which is just so typical you laugh out loud.

You go, because you know in the end you can’t say no to the Kaiba brothers. You brace for it to be awkward or sad or to feel like you’re intruding on a day for family.

It’s none of those things. The three of you last only twenty minutes into Alien this time before you fall asleep in a pile on the couch, Egg sprawled across your back like the fat orange cherry on top. Even though you all wake up at three in the morning with elbows in each other’s faces and dehydrated and cramped from weird sleeping positions, it’s also somehow the most relaxed you’ve felt in weeks.

You spend New Year’s with the Kaibas, too - but this time at the Mutou residence with Yuugi, Anzu, Jounouchi, Honda and as many friends as they can cram into the Kame Game shop, eating soba, watching Kohaku Uta Gassen, and finally all together making an ill-advised and precarious climb onto the roof to watch the sun rise on a brand new year.

* * *

You take a deep breath, straighten your back, and tuck your violin under your arm. Then you open the door.

The room is silent. You take a deep breath and walk into the centre. You lift your violin to your shoulder - ready your bow - the first notes of the _Don Juan_ excerpt sing out, loud and clear -

“Ahh, fuck,” you groan, lowering your bow and sitting down in the middle of Seto’s office. “Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.”

You take a minute to feel sorry for yourself, get up, leave the room and walk down the hall. Then you turn around and walk right back.

You fuck up _Don Juan_ on the first note this time.

“Damn it!”

As you ready your third approach, Seto says from the kitchen island: “What are you doing?”

You whirl around. You hadn’t seen him there. “What are _you_ doing?”

“This is my home,” he replies, unconcerned. “So I’m sitting in my kitchen. Is that a problem for you?”

“Noooo,” you sigh, lowering your violin. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Apparently not,” Seto says, sounding more amused than he has any right to be, “because you’re busy with...whatever this is supposed to be.”

“Audition prep,” you say, scowling at him. “I’m practicing my approach. It’s this performance psychology thing - you really can’t afford to fuck up the first note, so you have to prep for the first ten seconds of the audition - hey, close your eyes. Do you think I sound like an idiot when I walk?” You start walking back and forth along a short stretch of hallway to demonstrate.

“What?” Seto says, nonplussed. “What the hell does that have to do with it?”

“Answer the question,” you say. “I am begging you, I need to know if my footsteps sound like failure.”

“Just...” Seto sighs, and massages his temples. “You need to cool it. Come here and sit down.”

“I’m practicing.”

“If you quit annoying me with your excess nervous energy for twenty seconds, I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

You consider that. You do kind of want a cup of tea.

“The offer expires in three seconds. If you don’t take me up on it I’m locking you in the office until you’ve calmed down.”

“ _Done!_ ” you yell, setting your violin into its case and then hurling yourself onto one of the barstools. You regret yelling, because Seto really does look like he has a headache coming on. As Seto gets up and starts searching the pantry for your favourite tea, you suddenly feel completely exhausted and slump over, pillowing your head on your arms.

“Hn,” Seto mutters. “Apparently you do have an off switch.”

Seto sits back down after a couple minutes and pushes a cup of tea towards you. You’re too tired to even lift up your head. “What is this?” you groan. “You killed my momentum.”

“What’s this about you walking like an idiot?” Seto says. You can smell the dark, rich scent of the coffee he likes mingling with the scent of your tea. It’s sort of making your stomach turn, but it’s also sort of comforting.

“The auditions are blind,” you mumble into your arms. “There’s a screen up so the audition committee can’t see the candidates. They have this carpet that’s supposed to muffle your footsteps, so they can’t judge based on the sound of your shoes, but...I don’t trust the carpet.”

“Wait, _what?_ ”

“I don’t trust the carpet! What if they can hear, like, the creaking of the floor underneath-”

“Would you shut up about the carpet? What do you mean you’re _behind a screen?_ ”

You manage to drag your head out of our arms and give him an extremely world-weary look. “We’re behind screens. It’s so that the audition committee judges us only on our playing, and not on various biases like age, gender, race-”

“But you’ve been working yourself to death so that you’ll get this job,” Seto says, sounding outrageously offended.

“No,” you correct, “I’ve been working myself to death so that I’ll get auto-advanced to the second round. What, did you think the audition was just a formality?”

“I thought that idiotic committee would be able to actually see that it was _you_ auditioning and take that into account,” Seto says. He frowns and takes a large swig of his coffee. You notice distinct dark shadows under his eyes - he’s wearing reading glasses with thick frames today, possibly to make them less obvious. “What’s the point of hiring someone who sounds good if they turn out to be a terrible employee in every other way?”

You laugh out loud at that. “Sounding good is the whole point. That’s why orchestras are full of assholes.”

“I would never hire someone without having a conversation with them and checking their references,” Seto says heatedly. You sigh. He’s in rant mode, there’s no stopping him now. “Job performance isn’t a simple metric. It’s affected by numerous factors, including your team, work environment, compatibility with your supervisor - looking at someone’s _numbers_ doesn’t mean jack shit if they’re not going to be a fit with company culture-”

You put your head back on your arms and let him go for a while. Blind auditions are a highly controversial topic in the orchestral circle and there’s all sorts of data you could cite to support either side of the argument, but he seems to be enjoying himself so you just leave him to it. Seto won’t admit it, but he’s actually a genuine organizational psychology geek, and loves to talk at length about it - even though he has trouble putting his own knowledge into practice sometimes, given his very limited patience and propensity for terrifying people.

He’s still going. “And how can they even judge you based on, what, fifteen minutes of playing?”

“Actually, most audition committees decide within the first fifteen to thirty _seconds_.”

“What?! That’s fucking barbaric!”

You can tell Seto is crossing over from the kind of getting-worked-up that he enjoys, and into genuine ire. You decide to explain it in terms he’ll understand. “Think about a Duel Monsters tournament,” you say, trying not to sound as exhausted as you are. “Pro Dueling is a performance as much as it is a test of skill. Do the tournament competitors get a do-over because they might have been having an off day? You’re not just judging their skills as a _Duelist_ , you’re also judging a bunch of other soft skills - how well they perform under pressure, how quickly they can recover from mistakes, showmanship, the ability to focus and filter out distractions. It’s the same with an orchestra. You never get to play a concert over again, so getting it right the first time is a crucial skill.”

Seto sighs, long and aggrieved, and puts his own head on his arms, matching your position. “The analogy doesn’t map exactly,” he mutters. “Pro Duelists don’t have to work in an ensemble and get along with their colleagues, for one.”

You know that means he understands what you’re saying and he doesn’t like it. “Nothing maps exactly to the arts,” you say.

“Hn. Drink your tea.”

“Uuuuggghhh.”

“Don’t be pathetic. It’s going to get cold.”

You chug your tea in one swig and then drop your head right back onto your arms. The two of you sit like that for a moment, in matching postures of defeated exhaustion.

“Tokyo U comms rollout plan is still stuck, huh.”

“Yes,” he grumbles. “We’re getting stalled by the fucking federal government.”

“What?! Why are the feds involved?”

“Apparently they declined a similar offer for a nanotech partnership with a German university last year, and now this means Tokyo U has to retroactively justify approaching a private domestic corporation before we can go public or it could cause an international incident.”

“Jesus.”

“Fucking kill me.”

“Okay. How do you wanna go out?”

“You’re sick. Quit being morbid and play your excerpts for me.”

That wakes you up a little. “Huh?”

Seto shrugs, not lifting his head. “Pretend I’m an audition committee. You can do your whole approach and I’ll tell you if your footsteps sound stupid. I’ll even keep my head down and not look at you to make the blind audition experience more authentic.”

“Wow, really?” you say.

“One condition. None of this ‘playing one note and restarting’ bullshit. Play all of the excerpts, all the way through. Trust me on this.”

You trust him, so you shrug, get up, and lift your violin out of its case. You walk down the hall for added authenticity, and try your best to pull your brain out of its stupor and get back into audition mode.

You take a deep breath, straighten your back, tuck your violin under your arm, and march down the hall.

Seto is, true to his word, still slumped over the kitchen island. He kind of looks dead.

You lift your violin to your shoulder - ready your bow - the first notes of the _Don Juan_ excerpt sing out, loud and clear -

And the notes keep coming. You don’t fuck up. _Don Juan,_ the beast of audition pieces, practically sails by. Invigorated, you dive into the Mozart _Symphony No. 39_ , fly through the Prokofiev and Elgar, manage a very decent Beethoven, and then it’s time for the Schumann scherzo - your enemy. You attack the opening notes with an enthusiasm bordering on violence, and your assault carries you through the scherzo absolutely note-perfect. You pull back a little for the Mendelssohn, affecting a light and airy touch, and then finally it’s time for the Brahms concertmaster solo. After the onslaught of arpeggios and spiccato, you consciously force yourself to take a deep breath and ease into effortless lyricism.

You actually really love the Brahms solo - it’s something you play occasionally just for your own enjoyment - and you decide to play it for yourself this time, not the way you think the committee would want to hear it.

When your bow glides to a gentle stop, you chance a look up at Seto. He’s sitting up, despite his earlier assurances, with one elbow on the table and his chin resting on his hand; but his eyes are closed.

“What was that last one?” he says.

“The concertmaster solo from Brahms’ _Symphony no. 1._ ” You smile. “You liked that?” In your extended project to find out what classical music Seto enjoys, you’ve noticed that he responds well to very structured Baroque music - Bach, Scarlatti, Telemann - or dramatic, virtuosic Paganini and Ysaÿe, with very little patience for overly-romantic Brahms or Beethoven.

“It was...” Seto trails off. “Hn. It was fine.”

You put your violin away and hop up onto the stool next to his, leaning over and grinning obnoxiously directly in his face. “Admit it. You like Brahms. You’re a romantic at heart.”

“Your footsteps sound stupid.”

“Would you hire me anyways?”

“Yes.”

You smile. “That was really helpful, actually, to play them all through for you like that. What made you suggest it?”

“I’ve been hearing these fucking excerpts three bars at a time for weeks,” Seto snorts. “I just wanted to hear all of them all the way through for once.”

* * *

You haven’t heard yet about whether you’re going to be auto-advanced. You have no idea who to ask, or if asking is a horrible idea.

Fukuda seems to have entirely given up his campaign to break you down. He doesn’t taunt you anymore - he doesn’t even ignore you, in any sort of malicious-seeming way - he just treats you with a very distant politeness. The other violinists will even chat with you here and there, especially Hasegawa, who’s always excited when you share tidbits of what Mutou Yuugi’s like in person.

You know this should make you happy, but it doesn’t. You feel even more on-edge. Fukuda doesn’t seem reformed; he seems defeated, and you never got any real clarity on what he was fighting against in the first place. Something about it all sits wrong with you.

You resolve to just keep working as hard as you can. Discreetly, because Seto is starting to make pointed comments again about your admittedly sporadic eating and sleeping habits, and he looks so worn-down himself that you don’t want to argue with him or add any more worries to his plate.

The week before the audition, you start your day at five a.m. at the coffee shop. You’d begged not to be scheduled this week, but your manager is getting frustrated with your scattered availability, and Sanada has privately given you the heads-up that if you turn down even one more shift then you’re going to be unofficially dropped from the regular schedule and demoted to the casual-employee schedule.

You spend the entire time humming audition excerpts under your breath. It’s a slow day, and in a supreme act of mercy Jounouchi tells you to scram an hour before your shift is supposed to end, possibly just to get a break from your frenetic energy. You chug an espresso shot before you go, Seto-style, then hop on your bike and head for the concert hall.

You start to feel _very_ weird as you park your bike and lock it up, and you spend the first ten minutes in the practice room crouched with your head between your knees. You can’t tell if it’s nausea, or dizziness, or a headache, or all three. Your heart is going too fast and the world seems profoundly fuzzy and detached.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” you chant. This can’t happen right now. It _can’t_.

You struggle through a few hours of practice, and then decide to head to the Kaiba penthouse. It’s been a really strange balancing act trying to figure out how much to practice where; if you don’t spend enough time at the penthouse, Seto might figure out that you’re practicing elsewhere, but if you spend too much time there he starts getting weird and twitchy about it and starts trying to force bowls of food on you. The kinds of healthy, protein-rich foods that you know you’re just going to throw right back up. Your digestive system has basically given up in the last two weeks and you’re down to bananas, light broth and crackers.

You rationalize to yourself that you wouldn’t have to go to such insane lengths if Seto would just back off and let you do what you need to prepare for your biggest career step to date. It’s just until the audition is over - then you’ll cut back and take it easy.

On the bike ride to the penthouse, the _very weird feeling_ returns - but suddenly, and in full force.

You’re hit with the inescapable realization that you’re going to fall off your bike.

All you can do is try your best to shield your violin case as your bike topples and you roll off it into a grassy ditch next to the road. You frantically struggle to prop yourself up on your scraped elbows and fling open the case, then breathe a sigh of relief as you check it over - your violin is fine.

You’re maybe a little worse for the wear - you’d forgotten to wear a coat today, so your bare elbows are pretty banged up, and you can feel the beginnings of bruises already on your knees. It doesn’t feel like anything is sprained or twisted, but the fact that you could have injured your hands or wrists sends a thrill of terror through you. You lay on your back for a moment, trying to figure out how to breathe, until a concerned elderly gentleman bends over you and asks if he can call you a taxi. You thank him, struggle to your feet, and walk your bike the rest of the way to the penthouse.

You’re not going to bike again until the audition, you decide. You can’t risk it.

Your stomach drops when you see Seto’s shoes lined up by the entryway. What is he doing home in the middle of the day? You briefly consider turning and leaving before he can see-

“What the hell happened to you?”

Too late. Damn it.

“Fell off my bike,” you say, trying not to sound as upset about it as you are.

Seto takes another step towards you, frowning. “Are you hurt?”

“My violin’s fine,” you say, “and no damage to hands or wrists, so that’s good-”

“I didn’t ask about your violin. Get your priorities straight, would you?” he snaps. “Go sit down, I’ll get the first aid kit-”

“No, it’s okay, I’ll do it,” you say. “You can go back to whatever you were doing. Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” You glance over at the living room, which is absolutely strewn with papers and at least three laptop computers. “Um...what _are_ you doing, anyways?”

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Seto says, with what you feel is unwarranted sharpness. “I’m not asking you again. Go sit down in the kitchen.”

“No _thank you_ ,” you say, more sharply than _you’d_ intended. “Please just let me take care of it.”

The two of you stand there glaring at each other, in a ridiculous sort of stand-off.

“Look,” you say, “you either let me use your first aid kit or I’m biking home to use mine. If you’re in the middle of something-”

“ _Fine_ ,” Seto says, throwing his hands up. “I’m trained in first aid, but if you want those scrapes to get infected, it’s not my problem. Go patch yourself up.”

You try not to feel too hurt by that, because you’d gotten what you wanted and narrowly escaped having to show him the extent of the damage, but you have the sense that he really hadn’t expected you to show up and that whatever he’s doing with his million papers is something very important and he resents the interruption.

You patch yourself up as best you can in the bathroom. Your knee is throbbing but you can’t see anything _wrong_ with it per se, so you down a few paracetamol, and then you spend a few minutes just laying on the floor with your face against the cool tiles because it feels nice. Finally you force yourself to your feet and wander back to the living room.

“Um, Seto,” you say, in what you hope is a conciliatory tone. “If you have a lot to do, I don’t want to...I can practice somewhere else, so you can use your office...”

“Does it look like I’m using the office right now?” Seto snaps, and then immediately sighs and puts his hand over his face. “Fuck. I didn’t...no, it’s fine. Just...”

You feel even more stung, and you’re still really upset about risking your violin’s safety, and you’re very aware that it’s showing on your face and there’s nothing you can do about it. Seto slowly, wearily gets to his feet again, dropping a sheaf of papers, and stops right in front of you. He cups your face in his both of his hands and gives you a long, hard look. You sort of feel like a specimen under a microscope - it’s very uncomfortable, despite the gentleness of his fingers.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asks gruffly. “You don’t look good. Did you hit your head?”

“No,” you say. You didn’t, but the strange feeling from before is creeping back up again. “You don’t look good either,” you add - partly to deflect, partly to warn him that he’s treading on dangerous ground with this topic. “It’s really unusual for you to be home in the middle of the day. Is everything okay?”

Seto glowers at you for another few seconds, and then his shoulders slump and he leans forward to rest his forehead against yours with a sigh. “I know what you’re doing, and I’m going to play along. Listen to me. I’ll leave you alone for now, but in return, you can’t ask me about any of this. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” you say. “I understand.”

Despite feeling a little disturbed and unsettled by the interaction, you manage to fight through another three hours of practice before you catch a glimpse of something in the mirror. Seto is there, leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded. You have no idea how long he’s been there.

“Hey, there you are,” you say defeatedly. “Just in time to hear me send Schumann rolling in his grave.”

He just glares at you. You have no idea what kind of glare this is or what you’ve done to warrant it.

You shrug and pick up your violin. If he wants to rile himself up by listening to you mangle your excerpts, you’re not going to stop him.

“Stop. I want to talk to you about something.”

You put the violin down again and turn to face him with as much patience as you can muster. “Yes?”

Seto is no longer glaring at you. Now he’s glaring at the ceiling. “It’s been very stressful lately,” he begins.

You don’t like _anywhere_ this non-sequitur could be going, so you fold your arms. “Did you come in here to lecture me?”

“No!” he says in exasperation. “I didn’t. I just...”

He’s literally looking everywhere but you. You wait him out. You can do this all day.

“I just wanted to ask for twenty seconds of your time,” he mutters stiffly.

You stare at him for a moment while you try to puzzle out what the hell he’s talking about. Then you finally get it. All of the tension melts right out of you, and you can’t help but smile. You cross the room in just a few steps and wrap your arms around him.

You can feel his posture relax immediately as his arms circle around you in turn, and a sigh of what sounds like relief escapes him as he presses his face into your hair.

“Just...” Seto says after a moment. “A few more...”

“I’m not counting,” you say gently, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “Hey. You know you don’t even have to ask, right?”

“I don’t?” He sounds oddly surprised.

“No!” you laugh. “We’re friends. Do you think Anzu ever asks before hugging me? Or Jou, for that matter?”

Seto makes a humming noise into your hair. “How often do they...”

“Whenever they want to,” you say firmly. “So the same goes for you.”

Another moment passes. You hadn’t realized how much you’d needed this too. It feels so good that you have to fight down a strange and sudden lump in your throat.

“You as well,” Seto says tersely. “Any time.”

“You’re going to regret saying that,” you tease.

“No,” he says, “I don’t think I will.”

* * *

You get wrangled into one last extra obligation just days before your audition. It’s small, a semi-formal luncheon with some corporate sponsors, but it’s coming at a horrific time. After December - all the receptions, Christmas shows, Nutcracker, and general audition stress - you’re starting to feel like it’s literally all you can do to keep yourself standing until the audition, and that’s actually starting to worry you. For the first time you’re forced to acknowledge to yourself that whatever is going on with your body is not going to magically clear itself up before your audition, and that’s bad, because you absolutely need to be in peak condition.

You churn through the issue in your brain during the lunch, which is extremely rich food that you know you’re probably not going to be able to keep down anyways. You have employee health insurance now that you’re a contractor, and it’s slightly better than Japan’s national health insurance, but there’s still going to be a slight copay for a doctor’s visit and more if you need any sort of treatment. On the one hand, despite your best efforts you’ve dropped way down the priority list at the temp agency and are on shaky standing at the coffee shop. It makes you hugely nervous, because if you don’t win the audition you’re going to be _very_ suddenly out of a full-time job. On the other hand, you’ve built up a tidy little sum in your savings account from all of the extra services you’ve picked up - even though the donor events don’t pay anything, you made bank on The Nutcracker alone.

You decide you have to just suck it up and fork over the copay, especially if the doctor can prescribe you _anything_ that makes you feel like less of a zombie. Maybe you can get a good painkiller, too - you’re sore literally all over from the bike crash the other day.

“You seem distracted,” Arima murmurs, leaning over and squeezing your shoulder. “Is everything all right? Are you feeling well?”

He does seem genuinely concerned, but you also don’t think you’re imagining the reprimand in his words, either: _pay attention, do your job_. You shove the issue out of your mind and set to socializing with a renewed vigor.

After the luncheon ends you’re hit with an insane wave of dizziness, so you slip into an alcove and crouch down, trying to take deep breaths and talk yourself through it. You decide to beg off rehearsal for the afternoon, as upsetting as that is, and just see a doctor right away.

“What are you doing?”

You sigh, and look up. Fukuda is standing over you with his arms folded. He looks annoyed, as usual.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” you snap back. You’re just so tired of his shit, and no part of you is willing to tolerate snide comments right now.

Fukuda’s lips curl into a half-smile. There’s a fierceness in it, but...it doesn’t look malicious, either.

“I’ll tell you what,” Fukuda says, peering down at you. “I kind of respect the fact that you’re apparently willing to actually kill yourself for this audition. So I’m going to tell you something.”

“Get to the point, Fukuda,” you mutter, dropping the honorific on purpose.

This seems to please him even more. He crouches down in front of you, so that his face is level with yours.

“Listen to me,” Fukuda says lowly. “I tried everything I could to drive you out. I understand now that that was never going to work. So instead, because I admire your frankly insane stubbornness, I’m going to do you a courtesy and warn you. Drop out of the audition.”

“Excuse me?” you gasp. This guy is insane. Completely out of his fucking gourd. “Or you’ll do _what_?”

“Nothing,” Fukuda says with a shrug. “I’m not warning you for my sake. I’m warning you for yours. You don’t want to be in that chair. Only bad things are going to come of it.”

“You know what, Fukuda,” you grit out. “It’s not like I ever thought particularly highly of you, but even I’m surprised you’d go this low. What’s in this for you? You’re not auditioning. You have nothing to gain from axing a competitor.”

“That’s why you should listen to me,” Fukuda says, pinning your eyes with his. “I have nothing to gain from telling you this.”

His words echo Koizumi’s - that afternoon months ago in the ramen shop. Koizumi had been trying to warn you about something too.

“I can’t drop out,” you say. It comes out more desperate than you’d intended. “This is my chance...my chance to...” To finally start pursuing your goals. To create some stability in your life, both personal and financial. To start building a _home_ for the first time ever.

“I. Get. It,” Fukuda says in shitty English, clapping your shoulder with a sarcastic expression. He stands up. “Good. Luck. OK?”

“Fuck off,” you spit.

Fukuda leans down towards you one more time. “One last thing,” he says. “Watch out for Arima.”

Then he’s off down the hallway, leaving you to try and slow down your pounding heartbeat.

* * *

“Hmm. Oh, yes, you’re running a bit of a fever.”

You’re _what?_

“It looks like a mild case of the flu,” the doctor says, examining your face carefully. “Get some rest and drink some fluids, and you should be fine.”

You really, _really_ want that to be true, but you know that it’s not.

“But I’ve been having these symptoms since September,” you insist. “It’s not a flu.”

The doctor - a middle-aged man who still seems to the processing the fact that you’re reasonably fluent in Japanese - looks down at your chart again. “Hmm. Yes, I see, you told the nurse that you’ve had persistent symptoms. She also asked what your occupation was, and I see that you have...three jobs?”

You nod, even though it’s more like four with the amount of overtime you’re required to put in at the orchestra.

“You’re young,” the doctor says kindly, “and though I commend you for working so hard, I understand that it’s stressful to balance so many things. Try talking to your friends and family if you feel anxious. Can you take up a relaxing hobby?”

You’re suddenly reminded that you’re in Japan, where they literally have a word in the dictionary to describe death by overwork.

“You don’t understand,” you press, feeling near tears, which cannot be helping your case. “I’m not anxious. I think there’s something wrong with me. I can’t take a break right now.”

The doctor hums again. “Ah...please understand that nausea and dizziness are very vague symptoms that tend to correlate strongly with stress. If you’d like, I can schedule some bloodwork for you in a few weeks’ time, for your own peace of mind. The copay isn’t that much.”

“But...” you protest, feeling utterly helpless. “What am I supposed to do about my audition next week?”

“You have the flu,” the doctor repeats, giving you a pitying sort of look. “I can prescribe you some medication for that, and it should carry you through the week. We’ll have another appointment after your bloodwork is done to rule out any other possible causes. In the meantime, please take my advice and spend some time with your loved ones.”

You stagger home with your flu medication, skeptical that it’s actually going to do anything, and then you wake up the next morning with even more muscle aches, a raging fever, and a cough. Apparently you do actually have the flu, on top of everything else.

 _Fuck_.

* * *

Thank God you have no more rehearsals for the week and no more events, so the only thing you really have to do for the next few days is practice. You’re not willing to give your illness to Seto and Mokuba, so you suck it up and call Seto.

“I have the flu.”

“You _what?_ ”

“Yeah.”

“ _Now?_ Your audition is in four days!”

Seto’s reaction is nearly the exact same as yours had been, and he sounds so alarmed that it makes you feel even more of a sense of pervasive doom. “I know,” you say miserably. “I cannot fucking _believe_ the timing. Anyways, just letting you know why I won’t be around for-”

“I can fucking believe the timing,” Seto cuts you off heatedly, “what the hell did you expect, you’re-”

“Stop it,” you say sharply, “or we’re going to have to talk about why you’re existing off protein bars and stale coffee right now, when it’s not even Christmas launch season anymore.”

He goes silent on the other end of the line. You’re in such a profoundly weird stalemate these days, and it’s causing a lot of friction that neither of you are willing to acknowledge directly, so every conversation is starting to feel like a minefield.

“I’ll be over in a few hours,” he says finally. “What do you need? Do you actually have any food in your apartment?”

“Seto,” you say warningly. “I’m not going to let you in. I will literally barricade my door. You can’t get sick right now, and you know it.”

More silence. He knows you’re right and he hates it.

You muse, not for the first time, that this is a startling similarity the two of you have; the need for absolute control over your circumstances, and a sort of enraged helpless feeling when you can’t achieve it. The difference is that Seto tends to direct it outwards at the people around him, and you just push it quietly in towards yourself.

You hurtle through the next four days in a haze. You practice a lot, but you can’t tell if it’s any good, and sometimes you wake up in weird places - like sitting in your bathtub fully clothed, or holding a full bowl of cereal on the couch. One night you even dream about your mom, for the first time in years. There are a lot of missed calls on your phone from everyone you know. You text them back instead because you know there’s no way you’re going to hold a convincing conversation.

The texts from Seto just say _Call me,_ or _Call me immediately_ , or some variation thereof. You ignore that. You can’t handle it right now.

The morning of the auditions, you’re feeling like you might be starting to turn the corner a little bit. Your cough has been handily suppressed by Japan’s insanely powerful brand of over-the-counter codeine syrup, and your fever is practically gone. You don a mask so that you don’t infect anyone and resolve to stay very far away from the other violinists.

There are _so many candidates._ More than you ever expected, and even some international applicants, too. Minato Philharmonic has been making a meteoric rise this season, helped along by Hilary Faust, some very clever marketing, and the hiring of a veteran artistic director. You’re glad to see it, but also terrified.

You get to the front desk. The proctor scans the list for your name.

“I’m sorry, I don’t...”

Your stomach drops.

“Ah, I see,” the proctor says. “You’ve been auto-advanced to the second round. You can come back tomorrow.”

You go home, weep with relief, and then spend the rest of the day doing mock auditions for Egg so that you don’t lose momentum.

There are less candidates, the second day. Just you and fourteen other semifinalists. You have a warm feeling - two of them are people you’ve actually auditioned against before, a girl from Germany and a Korean guy. You can’t remember their names, but it’s just really, _really_ nice to see them again. You can’t tell your happiness is is one hundred percent genuine sentiment or in part because you took a staggering dose of flu medication this morning. You decide on the former, for your own sanity.

In a break between rounds, you hear your name whispered from a dark corner. Hasegawa is motioning you over, hiding in a little alcove.

“I’m not supposed to be talking to you, because I’m on the audition committee,” she says. She offers you a shy smile. “I just...I wanted to say good luck. I really hope it’s you.”

You smile back, hoping she can see it under your mask, and you also kind of feel like you want to cry.

When it’s your turn, the adrenaline takes care of everything the flu medication hadn’t been able to. Everything in your life has been pointing to this moment. You reflect on all the coincidences and connections and twists and turns that lead you here, straight into this confusing and complicated life that you’ve really grown to love.

You take a deep breath, walk onstage and face the screen - lift your violin to your shoulder -

The first notes of _Don Juan_ sing out through the hall.

While you all sit anxiously together in the waiting room, the Korean guy tells a funny story in extremely wonky English about getting lost on the way here. You feel so warm and appreciative of this moment, all of you laughing from sheer nerves, even though you’re competitors.

Fujimori comes in and announces the four finalists. It’s you, the German girl, and two older men you don’t know.

Your friends have been text-bombing you all day begging for updates. It’s so touching and also so rattling to have so many people invested in your success. You text back as many people as you can, just the word: _Finals!_

After the break, you play only five minutes of excerpts each. One of the two men looks devastated after his round. You wonder what happened. The German girl looks confident and radiant. You’re glad for her.

The jury can’t agree. They spend hours deliberating. It’s coming up on nine-thirty p.m., and the texts from your friends have trickled down to nothing - it’s like an anticipatory hush has come over everyone.

You receive one text in those hours, from Seto. _It’s going to be you. I have no doubt._

Fujimori comes back out. They can’t decide. It’s between you and the German girl. You’re both going to have to play one more time. You exchange glances with her - you’re both clearly running on fumes, but fighting exhaustion is just part of the audition process, and you both understand that. You venture a smile at her, a little murmur of _good luck._

“You won against me in New York,” she says, smiling back warmly. “I’m honoured that I’ve made it far enough to be auditioning with you again.” She reaches out and gently squeezes your wrist, and then she’s gone into the hall.

When it’s your turn, you clear your mind as much as you can. You straighten your back and walk back into the hall. You don’t know who all is behind the tall black screen, but at least one of them is Hasegawa, and for some reason that makes it feel less like looking into the void. For the final round, the process is more involved; instead of just playing your excerpts, Fujimori calls out to you from behind the screen. She asks you to play the Schumann with slightly different phrasings, the Mozart with new articulations. It’s a test of flexibility and stylistic interpretation, and you rise to it as best you can. That’s all you can do.

Last of all is the Brahms concertmaster solo. Fujimori tells you to play it in your own style.

You look at the screen, and you picture Seto behind it, elbows on the table with his chin propped on one hand, eyes closed.

You lift your violin and start to play.

* * *

On the bus ride home, you clutch your violin case like it’s your literal lifeline. It is, in a way. You feel like without it you’d float away, right out the bus window.

You haven’t gotten around to texting anyone yet, because you don’t feel ready for the outpouring of emotion that’s going to come roaring right back at you. You need a little while, first, to just hold it close to your chest and wrap your head around what it means for you.

When you drift in sluggishly through your apartment door and set your violin on the hall table, you notice the lights are already on.

Seto and Mokuba are there waiting for you, sitting expectantly in your living room. Mokuba is holding Egg in his lap, balanced on his two hind legs, so that it looks like he’s standing there waiting for you too. They’ve set a really, truly insane flower bouquet on your table - huge, in a riot of colours, with a card that says CONGRATULATIONS.

You start to laugh. Those cocky assholes.

“I won,” you tell them, and just as you register the smiles breaking over their faces, you pitch forward and everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that, Arc II is _done._ (mic drop) 
> 
> Next chapter is the start of Arc III, the final arc! I gave you all a break last chapter and then threw you right back into hell, SORRY <3 Arc II is definitely the most intense of the three.
> 
>  **Music mentioned in this chapter:**  
>  1\. [Don Juan, the beast of audition excerpts](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vEYAcHPXAU8), [The Monstrous Schumann Scherzo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oEtDcUBCdAM), [Brahms Concertmaster Solo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yD5Jt_clu3s) \- a sampling of the reader's audition excerpts. If anyone's interested in the other ones, this guy has a great playlist of them!
> 
> 2\. [Bach - Partita for Violin in B Minor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iEBX_ouEw1I), [Paganini - La Campanella](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jERzLseoAOM), [Ysaÿe - "Obsession" Sonata for Solo Violin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QmzavUR0Lfs) \- the kind of violin music Seto likes. I put an embarrassing amount of thought into this, lol. Like he's very meticulous and likes things to be well-crafted and "just so" - hence the baroque music - but he's also a massive hoe for drama, hence the Paganini and Ysaÿe.
> 
>  **Orchestral terms & tidbits:**  
> 1\. Just in case you think it's a wee bit unrealistic that the reader would think only of the safety of her violin in a bike accident - there is actually a very famous professional violinist who _lost her leg_ trying to save her violin from being damaged by a metro train! (She recovered fully and has a very successful career.) Musicians take their instruments VERY seriously!  
> 2\. I think I explained everything in the chapter but if anyone has any q's about the audition process just drop 'em in the comments <3
> 
> How are we feeling going into Arc III? I'm feeling pretty good. But that's mostly because you are all so precious and I look forward every day to chatting with you in the comments <3 P.S. Thank you for the kind words about my art! If anyone has something from this story they want to see illustrated, let me know and I'll do it for practice!


	13. Chapter Thirteen

You wake up...somewhere. Somewhere bright, and there’s a lot of beeping noises, and it feels kind of chilly. The air smells strange. Someone is holding your hand.

When you wake up again, you’re alone. You struggle to sit up. Your eyes adjust; you’re in a hospital room, and seemingly a private one at that. There’s a slender form curled up on a comfortable-looking couch near your bed.

“Anzu?”

“Hey,” Anzu says sleepily, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. “How are you feeling?”

You think about that. “Fine,” you decide.

“Okay, well, you’re full of shit,” Anzu says, in a dangerously cheerful tone, coming to perch on the side of your bed. “But the _nurses_ say you’re doing better now, so I’ll believe it.”

You feel suddenly and dangerously on the verge of tears as everything comes back to you. “Did I fuck it up?” you wobble. “Did they rescind the offer?”

“Oh,” Anzu sighs, her face softening. “No! _No._ You’re fine. I contacted Fujimori-san and explained that you had caught the flu. She sent the employment packet for you to sign and gave you the week off. Congratulations, by the way.”

You nod, trying to take deep breaths to steady yourself. “I’m sorry,” you say in a small voice.

“Listen, I get it. I’ve danced through colds and flus. I’m not going to give you hell about it,” Anzu says, resigned. “You’re going to get plenty of that from Jou. But...I do have something to fill you in on, okay?”

Your chest is sinking. Her tone is very serious. You nod again.

“So...” Anzu reaches over to smooth your hair back. “You know, um, that nanobot thing Kaiba-kun’s been obsessed with for months and it’s kind of been driving him into a very strange place that none of us understand?”

“Yes,” you manage. This is not going anywhere good.

Anzu shakes her head. “Er. Don’t freak out. But apparently there’s kind of been an ongoing corporate espionage situation that’s just blown up and caused really intense tension with the German government?”

Your eyes blow wide as saucers. You can’t find any words to choke out.

“Don’t worry,” Anzu assures you. “Kaiba-kun’s fine. He’s at the Public Service Intelligence Agency offices going over data and evidence and stuff. You can’t tell anyone about this, obviously, until the Japanese and German governments issue a joint press release...”

“Jesus.” You drop back onto your pillows, and then wince.

“So that’s why Kaiba-kun isn’t here right now,” Anzu continues. “He got the call shortly after bringing you here and had to leave right away. But if you just sign this form, they can discharge you to Kaiba-kun and Mokuba-kun-”

“Um, _what?_ ”

“Don’t,” Anzu says, poking you directly in the nose. “Do not. You are _going_ to cooperate, and you are going to stay at their apartment for a while, and I am going with you to look after you while they mop up the latest KaibaCorp PR disaster.”

When you’re discharged later that day after a battery of tests, Jounouchi drives you and Anzu to the penthouse. He rants loudly the entire way about how it’s no wonder you and Kaiba are BFFs because you’re both secretive assholes who would rather just up and die than actually let their friends support them, what is wrong with you two, he can’t believe you didn’t even tell _each other_ anything, et cetera. You take it all without complaining because you know you kind of deserve it. When he drops you off he pulls both you and Anzu into a hug so tight it kind of hurts, and makes you both promise to keep him and Yuugi updated.

Anzu hangs around with you in the guest room with you while you wait for Seto and Mokuba to get home from...whatever top-secret, nerve-wracking things they’re doing. There’s a duffel full of clothes waiting for you and at some point Egg wanders into the room, so someone’s clearly been to your apartment in the interim. Anzu won’t let you get out of bed except to pee, which you feel is a little excessive.

“Okay, let’s see,” she says, shamelessly thumbing through your discharge paperwork. “We’re looking at severe anemia; possible gastroparesis, although those test results will come in a few days; and also, you _idiot_ , you’ve been walking around on a sprained knee after crashing your bike.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Which you would know if you hadn’t been so doped up on flu medication and painkillers. It’s a mild sprain, obviously, but _still_.”

“Um...” you look down, twisting your hands together. One of them is itchy, where the IV was taped in, but you leave it alone. “I thought if I could just...get past the audition...”

“Listen,” Anzu says, taking your hands in hers. “I get it. I really do. Auditions fuck with your head, that asshole Fukuda’s been fucking with your head, and the arts fuck with your head. But I’m not the one you have to explain it to.”

* * *

Seto arrives at the penthouse later that night. He looks beyond drained, to the point where he even tolerates a quick hug from Anzu before she leaves. After the elevator doors shut behind Anzu, Seto just stands there in the doorway of the guest room, leaning against the frame, but not in his normal way; it actually looks like he’s relying on it to keep him upright.

“Where’s Mokuba?” you say hesitantly, partly just to break the long, awkward silence. You’re sitting cross-legged on top of the covers, because it makes you feel like less of an invalid.

“He sent me home,” Seto says. He sounds thoroughly defeated. “He’s...not pleased with me, and we both know PR isn’t my strong suit.”

You frown at Seto. “You didn’t tell him either.”

“Don’t turn this back on me,” Seto says, a little fire coming back into his voice. “Do you want to explain why _you_ -”

“Okay,” you interrupt him, raising your hands. “So I maybe wasn’t upfront about some stupid orchestra politics, and maybe you weren’t upfront about a corporate espionage situation with international diplomacy ramifications. Can we just...call it even, and skip the fight?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because you _scared the shit out of me!_ ” Seto explodes, taking a step into the room. You take a deep breath and wrap your arms around your chest, willing yourself not to flinch. “Do you - do you have _any_ idea what it felt like to just watch you _deteriorate_ for months-”

“Yes,” you argue, matching his raised tone, “yes, I do, actually - come on, how can you even ask that? You’re headed for a heart attack at age thirty, and everyone in your life has to just watch that happen-”

“I know what I’m doing!” Seto yells. “I understand my limits! I’m not the one -” he snatches your discharge papers off the table, “sitting there with _multiple_ health conditions, absolutely bruised to _shit_ because you were stupid enough to be biking around when-”

“That is such bullshit!” you yell back, tears stinging your eyes. “I’m so tired of your fucking double standards! Yes, okay, I fucked up! I get that! But I just - I just wanted-”

“You just wanted what?” Seto says nastily. “Did you want-”

“Stop it,” you interrupt him loudly. “You are absolutely _surrounded_ by people who care about you, who have proven to you _over and over_ again that no matter how much of an asshole you are, they’re going to be there for you - fuck, Yuugi follows you around with your favourite brand of protein bars like a little mama bird, and you just - you can’t even acknowledge how much you scare your friends because I think you genuinely think that this is what’s expected of you-”

“ _Because it is!_ ” Seto shouts, colour rising to his face. “My job requires intense focus and commitment-”

“So does mine-”

“I never said it didn’t, for fuck’s sakes! All I’ve _ever_ said is that you don’t need to have three fucking jobs at once, just focus on what’s important and stop _killing_ yourself for the privilege of, what, working at a coffee shop and doing data entry-”

“How can you say that?” you cry, getting to your feet and clenching your fists at your sides. “Mokuba told me you grew up in an orphanage. You fucking _know_ what it’s like to grow up poor as shit! You _know_ I can’t just drop income streams on a whim - How can you tell me to just - just _take it easy_ when I finally have the chance for some fucking financial security-”

“ _You’ve had that since you met me!_ ” Seto yells back. “You just won’t _take_ it!”

“What?” you say in utter disbelief. “Jesus Christ, think about what you’re _saying_ for once in your fucking life! I’ve heard some pretty insane shit come out of your mouth, but this - you’re implying I should become in any way financially dependent on - what, a friend I met online -”

“I think we both know that’s not what I am to you.”

In the silence that follows, you notice that Seto looks just as surprised by his own words as you are. His posture is still rigid, tense, combative - but the colour has drained out of his face.

“What are you, then?” you ask, even though you’re not sure you want to hear it.

The remaining tension leaks out of Seto’s posture. His shoulders slump forward and he raises a hand to scrub roughly over his face. “I don’t know,” he mutters, “but it scares me.”

“Me too,” you admit quietly.

“Why?”

You’re very aware that this isn’t obstinance or hypocrisy. Seto looks...a little lost, actually, like he’s hoping that whatever you say will give him some clarity, too. So you suck it up and try to articulate it out loud for the first time, because you feel like you owe him that much at least.

“I don’t...like being dependent on people,” you manage. You fold your arms defensively. “In any way. I like being able to, um, move around,” you shrug, “so I try not to get too attached? But...I really want to stay here. In Japan.”

“And that’s why you wanted this job so badly,” Seto ventures.

You nod, swallowing to try and wet your throat, which is parched with nervousness. “Right,” you nod. “And that...the whole ‘wanting to stay here’ thing...might, sort of have something to do with you?”

A complicated mixture of emotions flickers over Seto’s face, which you imagine mirrors your own. “Why didn’t you just ask me to sponsor your visa?”

You give him a thoroughly exasperated look.

Seto sighs. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I understand. I’m also...finding myself...” He’s doing that thing, where he glares at a fixed point in the room to avoid looking at you, “...feeling uncomfortably dependent on you, lately.”

He looks at you, finally, and rolls his eyes. “Wipe that surprised look off your face. Do you think there’s anyone else I call on my lunch break just because their voice calms me down?”

You actually hadn’t known that, and it’s a deeply uncomfortable realization for _you_ that maybe Seto feels just as hopelessly intertwined as you do.

“Okay,” you say, and take a deep breath. “Okay. So, um. The way I see it we can either...you know, step back a bit, try to be less involved...” A hurt look crosses Seto’s face for just a fraction of a second, but you plow on. “Or we can just accept it.”

“Accept what?” Seto says warily.

You kind of hate that he’s making you do the legwork. “This,” you say in frustration, gesturing between the two of you. “I mean. Obviously I want you to let me in, and you want the same thing from me. But it doesn’t come naturally to either of us, so where do we go from there?”

Seto snorts. “Mazaki would know, but I sure fucking don’t.”

“Me neither,” you admit. “Should we call her and ask?”

Seto looks like he’s actually briefly considering it, and then he laughs - an open, genuine laugh that you don’t hear from him often. “This is sad,” he says.

You start to laugh too. “So sad.”

“I think if Mazaki were here, she’d tell us, _talk to each other, you idiots._ ”

“That sounds pretty accurate.” You smile at him, then sit back down on the bed, resuming your cross-legged position from before. You pat the spot next to you, expecting him to sit down, but instead he lays down on the bed and stretches out, arms behind his head. He looks so tired that it’s kind of heartbreaking.

“Well then,” he says, “start talking.”

You snort and lie down as well, mimicking his pose. “Nice try.”

“Are we at an impasse already?”

“Apparently.”

“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll tell you some _highly_ classified corporate information, if you tell me what the fuck the deal with that asshole Fukuda is.”

So you talk.

You learn that Seto detected traces of a hacker, early on in negotiations with Tokyo University, and brought it to their attention. Tokyo U in turn brought it to the PSIA, who advised both Kaiba Corporation and Tokyo University to sit and wait, in hopes that the hacker could be caught unawares before disappearing into the ether.

Seto grills you about your conversation with Koizumi after your second rehearsal, and the odd mystery of why Arima spent the first month ignoring you only to do an about-face at a donor reception. He makes you repeat both Koizumi’s and Arima’s words in as much detail as you can, and demands to know what the hell Nakai was up to in the first place with her meddling. (You don’t know how to answer that.)

You listen in a sort of enthralled horror as Seto describes creating and maintaining an _entirely_ separate version of the nanobot project in the KC servers - filestructure and all - with permissions only for himself and a few extremely trusted Tokyo U employees and PSIA agents, while continuing the old version _in parallel_ but with very deliberately planted misinformation in strategic places, as a way to track who was disseminating what information. He’s essentially been doing the nanobot project in duplicate for months while giving his full cooperation to both the federal and municipal governments.

At this point you’re starting to feel a little overwhelmed and like maybe Seto should stop freaking out about the Faust thing and get back to his own terrifying real-life thriller, but he’s so incensed about Fukuda framing you that you need to give him a minute to calm down before you can gently redirect the topic back to _the hacker infiltrating his company oh my god._

“So there was already some existing tension with the German government, and then when Mokuba and I were at the hospital I got a call from the PSIA saying that they’d traced the hacker to Schroeder Corporation, which is...”

“German,” you finish, with wide eyes. “Do you think...”

Seto snorts. “Nothing to do with the government. I’ve dealt with that fucking lunatic Siegfried von Schroeder before. He’s just a pathetic failure who’s out for blood.”

“Um...why?”

“I may have had some dealings with him in the past that didn’t turn out well for him.”

You sigh as you wonder how many enemies Seto has out there. He doesn’t even seem to care.

“Anyways, it doesn’t matter. The rest of the investigation is a formality at this point to establish that von Schroeder acted independently, we’ll all release a joint statement, this fucking project can finally wrap up and I can resolve to never use KaibaCorp’s technology for altruistic reasons again.”

“Good takeaway.”

Seto rolls over to face you, pillowing his head on his elbow. “I think Fukuda’s right. You need watch out for Arima.”

You face him too, frowning. “What? Don’t agree with Fukuda, what the hell? Are you still pissed at Arima-san because of the reception-”

“No,” Seto interrupts, then he pauses. “Well, yes. It’s just annoying. Don’t let people put their hands all over you like that. It’s a fucking workplace.”

You notice that he looks like he’s struggling to stay awake. You are, too, if you’re being honest. So instead of dignifying that with an answer, you reach out and gently brush back the hair at his temple. You can hear his breath hitch.

“What are you doing?” Seto says.

“Shut up and relax.”

“Why are you so fucking bossy?” Seto complains, but he closes his eyes and doesn’t flinch away from your hand.

You wake up what must be hours later, very briefly. Seto is asleep - you can tell by his even breathing - and your hand is clasped in his on the pillow between you. You drift back off again and neither of you stir for the rest of the night.

* * *

Mokuba comes home around five in the morning fresh off a grueling bout of PR management and damage control. He’s _pissed_. You can tell by the way he starts banging around in the kitchen, slamming pantry doors and making coffee with unnecessary force.

Seto ventures out into the kitchen. Mokuba immediately starts a yelling match. You try not to listen in, because it’s clearly between them, but even with the penthouse’s excellent soundproofing you still catch snatches drifting in through your closed door.

“This kind of thing isn’t in your purview-”

“I’m the vice fucking president! _Everything_ is in my purview!”

“-security liability-”

“Oh don’t you fucking _talk_ to me about security liabilities, you’ve always been the biggest liability in this-”

“Don’t you dare-”

“-do you have _any_ idea what I just-”

You put your pillow over your head because this really _really_ isn’t any of your business, but their voices continue to echo through the penthouse for a solid two hours.

“-was trying to keep you _safe_ -”

“No, you just don’t fucking _trust_ me with this company, even after all the things I’ve-”

“-both done things to keep this company safe, but I should never have-”

“- _fuck_ you-”

Eventually Seto’s voice dies down to nothing and it’s just Mokuba yelling at him for a solid twenty minutes, and then you hear the door to Seto’s bedroom slam shut and your own door is thrown open.

Mokuba is standing in the doorway - he looks like a wreck. There are dark circles under his eyes to match his brother’s and his ponytail is askew. His expression is hard. He looks much older, somehow.

You get out of bed, pad to the middle of the room, and hold out your arms. Mokuba’s face cracks and he practically throws himself into them.

“Sorry,” Mokuba sniffles into your shoulder. “It’s just- that fucking _asshole_ -”

“I know,” you soothe. “Sucks when you love an asshole, doesn’t it?”

Mokuba nods, his shoulders shaking.

“I know he does bullshit like this because he loves me,” Mokuba says later, when you’re both sitting on your bed with a bunch of snacks spread out between you. Mokuba had thoughtfully picked out some really mild things for you - pudding, light crackers, et cetera. “I _know_ that. That’s not - that’s never been in question. But every time I call him on it, he always plays the fucking big brother card, like he’s just doing everything for my own good-”

“I mean, he does think that’s what he’s doing,” you say, squeezing his hand.

“Because he thinks he knows what’s best for everyone, automatically,” Mokuba says, taking an angry bite of mochi. “Has it ever occurred to him that what’s best for me is for my own brother to _trust_ me?”

You study Mokuba for a moment, something crystallizing in your brain. “You guys have a really complicated relationship sometimes, don’t you? I can’t imagine it was easy to figure out the line growing up between him being your brother and your parent.”

Mokuba shrugs. “Yeah. When we were young it was just like...I dunno. He’d let me do all these crazy things like skip school and help with Duel Monsters tournaments and stuff, and we’d do everything together, but then he’d get this weird guilt about it and double down and be really strict for a while. He sort of got the hang of it by the time I was in high school, but...”

You nod thoughtfully, taking a bite of pudding. “Yeah. And as you get older, that line gets even more confusing, right? The difference between an eleven-year-old and a sixteen-year-old seems way bigger than when you’re in your twenties.”

“Right,” Mokuba says, reaching over with a spoon and taking some of your pudding. “And like...I don’t know. In some ways he’ll always kind of be my dad, and that’s such a weird thing to think about, but it’s true. But sometimes I don’t need a parent, I just need a brother.”

“Have you like, told him that? In those words?”

Mokuba grins sheepishly at you. “No. You think he’d understand?”

You smile back at him. “I think he’d try to understand anything, for your sake.”

“I think he’s planning to sulk in his room with the cat for the rest of the day.”

“You’d better go in there and save Egg.”

Mokuba laughs and squeezes your hands in turn, and then sets off towards his brother’s firmly-shut door.

* * *

“Would you just stop backtalking me for two fucking minutes and eat your cereal?”

Ah, breakfast at the Kaiba penthouse.

As he is wont to do, Seto has done thorough research on both anemia and, following the results of your tests at the hospital, gastroparesis. He’s printed out a list of recommended foods and stuck it to the fridge with one of those insanely powerful industrial magnets he likes.

“We have to eat together,” you shrug. “That’s the deal.”

‘The deal’ was a joint promise to Mokuba that you’d both grow the fuck up and take care of yourselves like actual adults. He’d left the conditions of the agreement vague, but neither of you are stupid enough to push it.

“That’s your _interpretation_ of the deal-”

“Is that backtalk, Seto? My god, the hypocrisy-”

“You are so annoying, do you literally lie awake at night thinking about new ways to annoy me-”

“Sit down or I’m throwing my cereal bowl at your stupid head,” you sing, gesturing to the seat across from you.

Seto shoots you a glare that could probably kill a senior executive on the spot, and then sits down, holding the container of muesli that he’d probably been planning to pack in his briefcase and then ignore all day. You hadn’t known until now that it was possible to eat muesli vengefully, but Kaiba Seto is nothing if not talented in finding creative new ways to intimidate his opponents.

“Take your supplements,” Seto mutters, as if that will give him some kind of imaginary upper hand.

“I did,” you respond primly. “Want some tea?”

“No.”

“Sorry, let me rephrase that. Will you drink some tea if I brew it?”

“...Yes.”

After nearly a week staying at the penthouse in which you and Seto nearly killed each other - with constant fresh, exciting disagreements ranging from, _You need to cut down on the caffeine before you give yourself an arrythmia,_ to, _well YOU can only practice two hours a day this week or I’m confiscating your violin_ \- you’re finally back to work. You’re going home today, so this is your last day to get into a breakfast sniping match with Seto.

You feel a little sad about that.

In the end, you’d only missed one rehearsal - your body had had the excellent foresight and planning to completely give out on a break week with no concerts scheduled for the weekend - and you’re able to brush it off to your coworkers as just a flu. Your first couple rehearsals back are unremarkable other than the stream of congratulations. To your pleasant surprise, most of them actually seem really sincere, and you can’t even find it in your heart to be bothered that Nakai now apparently finds you worth her time again.

You think about that as you chew your extremely bland, boring, Seto-approved cereal. Maybe it’s time to corner Koizumi in a dark alley and intimidate him for information on Nakai. (Or, more likely, invite him out for ramen and see if he’ll talk now that you’re an official member of the orchestra.)

“What are you thinking about?”

You look up, startled. Seto is watching you with an inscrutable sort of expression on his face - a look of intense concentration but tempered with something soft that you can’t quite name.

“Uh...” His eyes are such a profound shade of blue, with so much depth, and it’s a really strange thing to get caught up in at this particular time, but here you are, caught up in it. You can’t even get your act together and make up something less stupid-sounding, so you blurt out, “interrogating my coworker with the threat of force?”

A smile breaks out across his face - a genuine, amused smile. “I’m not bailing you out if you end up in prison.”

“I wouldn’t want you to,” you say haughtily. “I’m not afraid to do my time.”

“Spoken like a veteran criminal.”

“Thank you.”

“If I have to tell you to eat your fucking cereal again, I’m going to have a stress aneurysm.”

“Go ahead. I’ll watch.” You take an obnoxiously big bite of cereal anyways, because you’re all talk these days.

Your duffel has been packed since last night, Isono is waiting outside, and Egg is safely in his crate - he hasn’t even started howling yet, because he doesn’t know that he’s going on a trip - but Seto lectures you at the front door for an unnecessarily long time.

“Did you pack your supplements?”

“Yes.”

“All of them? And your medication?”

“You literally watched me do it.”

“I’ve arranged for a grocery delivery to your apartment-”

“I know. It’s coming at seven p.m. and I need to be home to receive it.”

You take it all goodnaturedly with a smile, because you’ve been on his ass about his caffeine intake all week and you know the withdrawal is making him even more uptight, picky and difficult. As if that were possible.

“Listen to me,” Seto says, putting both hands firmly on your shoulders, “small meals, _frequently_ , do you understand?”

You stand up on your tiptoes and wrap your arms around his neck.

“Are you trying to distract me?” Seto mutters, but he doesn’t hesitate in circling his arms around your waist.

“No,” you say honestly. “I’m just going to miss you too, that’s all.”

You’d sort of expected a sarcastic retort, but you’re also not surprised when he just sighs and hugs you tighter to his chest. Even though he’d been dialed up to eleven on the overbearing front this week, it was just...really, really nice to wake up every morning knowing you’d see him soon. It had been nice to argue amiably about whether to listen to music or not while you hung out in the living room, reading and working in parallel as Egg climbed all over both of you. It had been especially nice to spend long periods talking, stretched out side-by-side on your bed or his, just about totally random stuff - everything from work to current events to speculating on why medieval scribes were so obsessed with drawing snails on everything.

Just once - not counting that first night - your hand had found his, and neither of you had acknowledged it, but he’d kept your hand in his own for hours, until it was time for you to go back into your own room for the night.

You reluctantly release him, because you feel kind of bad for keeping Isono waiting.

Seto doesn’t let go.

Instead he keeps one arm around your waist, but he brings the other upwards to cup the side of your face, very gently, using his fingers to tilt your chin towards him. You can feel your heartrate picking up. Your breath hitches as you catch the full force of those deep, intense eyes, pinning your own.

He leans down until his nose is just brushing yours. It’s all you can do to keep breathing as you unhook one arm from around his neck and brush your fingers against his jaw. This elicits a shaky, unsteady inhale from him, and his fingers tighten around the side of your waist.

You feel like he’s the only thing keeping you on your feet, like without him you’d just be falling endlessly.

“Do you want this?” he murmurs, so close you can practically feel the movement of his mouth. You can’t speak - not when he’s looking at you like that - so you lean forward and close the last centimeters of distance to press your lips to his.

You’ve wanted this since that evening in your apartment, long ago, after your first Wednesday night dinner. No - since the first time you’d heard his voice on the phone, answering with a brusque _what?_ Or maybe since the first visit to your apartment where he had asked - with such endearing uncertainty - if he could hold your violin.

It’s impossible to tell - all you know for sure is that it feels like a piece you hadn’t even known was missing from your life.

The kiss is brief but intense. His lips are both demanding and gentle against yours, and almost involuntarily one of your hands fists into his shirt while the other tugs lightly on the back of his head, pulling him closer. This elicits a sharp breath from him, and the pad of his thumb brushes your cheekbone as he tilts your chin for better access, deepening the kiss for just a moment before pulling away.

Seto kisses you again, very softly this time.

“I’m not going to miss you,” he says, “because I’m going to see you again soon. Promise me.”

“Promise,” you murmur, your lips curving into a smile against his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONSENT 👏 IS 👏 HOT 👏 This is literally my first time writing kissing so....forgive me..........................
> 
> OK my darlings. I _think_ this is going to be 20 chapters. It may be 19. It may be 21. But I'm just gonna put up my best guess for now and see how it goes. (」°ロ°)」Now I can tell you that the theme of Arc II was about external pressure and learning to deal with it by coming together instead of apart! Arc III will be a little quieter, more internally-focused, dealing with deep-seated emotions/trauma etc.
> 
> Also. Y'all. There is No Music In This Chapter, lol. Please enjoy a little break from musician drama. Instead I'm just going to link you to something I like that I'd never have an opportunity to mention. (⌒▽⌒)♡ [Chopin - "Winter Winds" Etude](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_xG6SdRplvw) \- This piece fucking SLAPS. Chopin was 1000% extra At All Times.
> 
> Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for all your sweet comments - conspiracy theorizing - commiserating about music stuff - I love this comments section so much!!! Best I've ever had on a fic. You guys are RAD AF. <3


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make up for the hell I put you all through during Arc II, please enjoy this fluffy-as-fuck chapter. <3

“What! No! You _dick!_ ”

A horrible laugh sounds from the other side of the room. Your Minecraft pumpkin farm is in ruins, thanks to a massive quantity of TNT.

“Why do you do these things? Are you acting out for attention?”

“You were in my way. I’m trying to expand in that direction.”

Seto is working on a sprawling megacomplex of some sort that involves a lot of extremely complicated redstone machines and possibly enclaves of enslaved villagers. You have no idea. Every time you try to go in there he brutally murders you and loots all your stuff.

“You fucker,” you complain. “I’m literally just trying to vibe over here.”

“Vibe somewhere that isn’t where I want to build.”

“Mokuba. Contain your brother.”

Mokuba laughs, in a startling imitation of his older brother, from where he’s sprawled on the floor with his laptop. He’s busily spamming server commands to give himself cool stuff, which Seto won’t do on principle and you won’t do because you don’t _care_ about cool stuff.

You are, quite literally, just trying to vibe. You’d built yourself a classy little cabin in the woods, with watermelon and pumpkin farms and a small herd of cows, far enough away from the Maniac Brothers that you thought you’d just be left alone to live out your pastoral life. You should have seen the writing on the wall when Seto started a deforestation project at the edge of your nice woods.

Well, whatever. Apparently peace was never an option. You don your best armour and spend the rest of the time trying to evade death while blowing up holes in Seto’s supervillain lair. You feel kind of like a rebel fighter taking on the Death Star, except you die in the end because Seto has lava traps _everywhere_ and that level of evil had just never occurred to you in a building game played primarily by ten-year-olds and burnt-out Millennials.

At the last minute Kaiba Mokuba - force of indiscriminate chaos - aids your cause by destroying a key component of one of Seto’s redstone machines, which takes down most of the eastern half of his fortress. He then evades all consequences by shutting his laptop and claiming he’s got work to do, right now, and he’s going to the office. (He’s full of shit. You’re pretty sure he’s going out drinking with Honda and Otogi.)

“Bye,” Mokuba yells, as he ducks into the elevator. “Don’t kill each other while I’m gone.”

“Too late,” you mutter, shutting your ancient laptop.

“I offered you a deal,” Seto says, shrugging. “Reasonable, too. A stack of emerald ore in exchange for your cooperation in relocating.”

“I didn’t want your stupid ore! I wanted my nice lakeside cabin. You know Minecraft isn’t a competitive game, right?”

“If player-killing is a built-in feature of the game, then it’s a competitive game.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Seto smirks but otherwise ignores you. In a fit of pique, you stomp over to where he’s sitting at the kitchen island and close his laptop, narrowly missing shutting his fingers in the lid.

“Well done,” he says, his smirk broadening as he folds his arms and leans against the back of the bar stool. “That was admirably petty.”

You’re frustrated with him for several reasons, actually, so you fold your arms too and glare at him wordlessly.

“Frightening,” he praises. “Now get out of my way, I need to make some coffee.”

“No.”

You’re frustrated because this exasperating man is constantly trying to subvert your and Mokuba’s efforts to cut down his caffeine intake, because he turns literally every game into a grudge-match full of senseless griefing, and because you haven’t spoken a word to each other about him kissing you and he _won’t do it again_.

In fact, he’s maintained a very respectful distance from you for the past week. All of the easy casual touches you’ve built up over the past few months are gone; no brief hugs, no touches to each other’s hands or elbows to get the other’s attention, and he’s entirely stopped his annoying habit of literally grabbing your shoulders and moving you when you’re in his way. (You didn’t think you’d miss that one. You were wrong.)

Seto rolls his eyes at you. “All right. Tea then. Is that allowed, Warden?”

“No,” you say, because you’re frustrated and you don’t know how to articulate why without making things extremely awkward. You know that you’re lucky things aren’t awkward already - that a kiss is sometimes a thing that can sink an entire friendship - but for once in your life, you actually hadn’t been hoping for the outcome where the two of you never mentioned it again.

You don’t know what outcome you’re hoping for. Something that preserves your friendship, obviously, and preferably something that involves more kissing. That’s about the extent of what your poor, tortured brain has come up with.

“Fine,” Seto sighs. “I’ll leave your territory alone and stop destroying your farms. Temporarily. Now will you move?”

You could move out of his way, or you could do the exact opposite of that.

Maybe you’re not thinking one-hundred percent with your brain right now. Whatever. You’re a healthy young adult. It happens.

Instead you step forward, and before you can stop yourself you raise your hands to rest on the sides of his neck, with your thumbs brushing his jaw. That’s as far as you’d planned ahead. The look on his face completely disorients you and knocks any further courses of action out of your brain.

Seto makes up the rest of the distance by wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you in until you’re standing between his knees. He cups the back of your head with one hand, twining his fingers into your hair, and the erratic breath he lets out as he pulls your face towards his sends a jolt through your stomach.

“If you want something from me,” he says lowly into your ear, “you’re going to have to ask for it.”

Damn it. Of _all_ the times to not just do what he wants as usual, _this_ is where he finds an appreciation for boundaries?

You get it, though. You really do. You’re both on delicate ground here, and there can be no miscommunications. You can do this - you can suck it up and use your words like an adult.

“Um...” you can feel your face going tomato-red, which is admittedly not your most attractive look. He wants this too, right? You’re struck with an absurd terror that he’s going to say no, even though he did it first and his arm is around your waist and his fingers are tangled in your hair and he’s pulled back to look at you with dark, hooded eyes and okay _focus_ \- “Will you...will you kiss me, please?”

The words are barely out of your mouth before his lips are on yours.

The kiss is harder, more desperate this time - building on a week of uncertainty - and you’ve kissed your share fair of people before, but it’s _never_ been like this. Every point of contact feels electric. Also he’s just - he’s a _really_ good kisser, and that feels unfair, because he’s good at everything, but in the end you’re not complaining.

You break apart, both breathing heavily. Last time, Seto had been the one to press one last soft kiss to your lips; this time it’s you, and it’s as gentle and sweet as you can make it.

* * *

After - during - the third time, you finally talk about it. Sort of.

You’re both at your apartment - you should probably be practicing but you’re playing Skyrim instead because you can’t face up to the reality that the orchestra is playing Schubert this week and there’s nothing you can do about it. Seto is working on his laptop on the couch; you’re sitting on the floor with your back against his legs.

“What are you doing?”

You shrug. “What does it look like?”

Seto closes his laptop, gets up off the couch, and sits next to you on the floor. He watches for a moment.

“It looks like you’re systematically murdering every single civilian in this town by shouting them to death,” Seto says mildly. “Oh, look, here comes the town guard.”

“Time for them to meet God.”

“I admire your coping mechanisms,” Seto deadpans, “and I find your distaste for Schubert both inexplicable and impressive.”

You end your killing spree by sending the City of Whiterun’s most pompous douchebag of an NPC to meet his doom, after he’s been forced to watch the extermination of all his friends and neighbours. “Wow, that feels great,” you say happily, glancing up at Seto. “I could kill that guy every day and never get tired of it. Hey, you wanna try? I think I accidentally left that annoying preacher alive around here somewhere-”

Seto bends down and kisses you so soundly that you forget where you are and accidentally drop your controller with a loud clatter.

“You’re so fucking cute,” he murmurs against your lips, and then it’s another few minutes after that before you come up for air again.

While it does absolutely track that the senseless murder of innocent village NPCs would be the sort of thing that Seto finds irresistible, the whole thing suddenly feels significant because you’re now realizing that it’s happened three times and that’s officially a pattern.

“Wait, wait,” you gasp, as Seto’s teeth graze your bottom lip and it nearly sends you into complete sensory overload.

“Yes?” Seto says against the corner of your mouth.

“What, um...what is this?”

“Kissing, idiot. Is that not apparent?”

He’s started planting feather-light kisses at the very edge of your lips, and it’s unbelievably distracting. It’s literally all you can do to stay on track. “Okay. But. We’re friends, right?”

“Of course we are,” Seto scoffs, and then covers your mouth with his again.

That...sort of makes sense. You’re friends and you kiss sometimes. You’ve had friends like this before - there’s no need to make a big deal about it.

( _But,_ your traitorous brain supplies, in a voice that sounds suspiciously like Honda’s, _never with a friend that you’re also in a weird domestic partnership with_.)

You think about that over the next week, churning it over in your head, trying to imagine the advice that Sanada or Anzu would give you. Both of their voices echo in your head along with Honda’s, to the tune of _talk to him, you god damned moron_ , and you suppose it’s growth that you’re at least nominally coming to that conclusion on your own.

“Seto,” you say, at possibly a very inconvenient time, because he’s sort of in the middle of kissing you senseless.

“Mm,” is all you get in response, and then it’s a full minute before you can respond to _that_ because your mouth is otherwise occupied.

“ _Seto,_ ” you repeat insistently as soon as you’re able. You’re terrified you’re going to lose your nerve, so it’s kind of now or never.

Seto sighs and pulls back, just a little. “What?” he says, although his tone is more sarcastic than anything. When you flush and avert your eyes, he frowns. “Is something wrong?”

You take a deep breath. “Um. Are we. You know. Together?”

Seto looks completely and utterly nonplussed, in a way that seems unjustified to you. “What?”

You know that you can be extremely oblivious. Emotional awareness is not your strong suit. You know that it’s not _his_ strong suit either. But somehow, you’re still in awe that you’ve managed to find possibly the one person out there who’s even more of an idiot than you are.

“Well...” you struggle with how you’re supposed to explain the obvious, in a way that he can parse. “We spend a lot of time together. We have, er, some significant emotional closeness going on, which we’ve finally acknowledged. You...you keep your favourite brand of coffee at my _house_ ,” you continue, picking up steam, “and my cat loves you possibly more than he loves me, and...we kiss. So...what would you call that, exactly?”

“We’re friends,” he says slowly, looking now not only confused but a little upset. “What does the cat have to do with anything?”

As if on cue, Egg lets out a loud yowl from where he’s perched at the balcony door, engaging in his daily staring contest with his tabby nemesis.

“For god’s sakes,” you say. You’re starting to feel upset too. “What do you mean, we’re _friends_? You... _you_ were the one who kept...finding excuses to touch me, practically ever since we met, and...”

“Excuse me?” Seto says, sounding affronted. “You were the one that started it - you hugged me-”

“That’s not the point! It doesn’t matter who started it,” you argue, “even though you’re _wrong_ , you were the one who started it, but the point is that you have made it pretty fucking clear that you’re interested in being more than friends-”

“I’ve always been _attracted_ to you,” Seto counters, and even now he’s still holding you close and doesn’t seem motivated to change that. “I don’t know what you’re talking about with this _more than friends_ thing or what you’re implying-”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about-”

“Oh, do I, enlighten me then-”

“We’re in a relationship, for fuck’s sakes!”

That finally makes Seto let go of you. It feels like a slap in the face.

“I didn’t agree to that,” he says finally.

“Neither did I!” you say heatedly, crossing your arms and glaring. “Jesus. You...you were the one who kept escalating things, and before I knew it...”

Seto glares right back at you. “Where the hell is all this coming from? We already talked about it. We acknowledged that we’re very close friends and that there’s mutual emotional dependency. Now there’s a physical aspect, which seemed to be working out quite well. Why on earth are you going and changing the parameters _now_?”

You have no idea how to answer that, because the same thought had occurred to you - the same temptation to just not look too hard at the whole thing and just enjoy it for what it was. “I don’t know,” you say in frustration. “It’s just...shouldn’t we _talk_ about this? What we are to each other?”

“Apparently not, since you seem to have unilaterally decided without giving me time to think about it.”

You feel tears welling up, and there is _no_ way you’re going to let this dickhead see you cry. “Well, I suggest you go and think about it, then,” you say, with as much composure as you can manage.

“Is this an ultimatum?” Seto snaps, getting up and heading towards the door. “Really? I didn’t think you of all people-”

“If you want to take a suggestion that you do some self-reflection for once in your life as an ultimatum, that’s your prerogative,” you say, biting your cheek against the onslaught of emotion welling up in your throat.

After the door closes behind him, you sink to your knees and wrap your arms around Egg, burying your face in his warm soft fur. Egg tolerates this in the way that he tolerates most of your emotional crises - with patience and also general indifference. Eventually he abandons you to go stick his face under the fridge and start howling.

You sigh and dig out your phone. It’s time to call in the big guns.

* * *

“You’re so stupid.”

“I’m _aware_ ,” you groan, burying your face in your hands, partly to hide your red cheeks.

“No, like really,” Honda continues, “just unbelievably stupid. Both of you. It’s like you’re _trying_. Participating in some kind of stupidity Olympics, where you’re the only contestants and everyone in the audience feels secondhand pain from watching it happen.”

“Honda,” Anzu scolds, rubbing your back. “We’re very proud of you for acknowledging your feelings and talking to him about it like an adult.”

You look up at her, blinking. “What feelings?”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Honda groans, falling backward onto Anzu’s bed.

Anzu sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Okay. We’re proud of you for acknowledging the strange pseudo-relationship you and Kaiba-kun have been in basically since you met. That’s pretty good, for you.”

“But, um, what feelings?” you squeak. “Like, do you mean-”

Honda throws himself off Anzu’s bed, kneels down in front of you, and squishes your cheeks together with his hands. “That dumb asshole has been in love with you _forever_. You’re in love with him too. _Those_ feelings.”

“There’s no use denying it,” Anzu says, cutting off the denial you were about to issue, as Honda forcibly nods your head up and down.

“If he’s so in love with me,” you say, feeling unbelievably self-conscious, “then why did he flip his shit and just...leave my apartment?”

“Because. You. Told. Him. To,” Honda says, nodding your head vigorously with every word.

Anzu smacks Honda’s wrists until he lets go of you, and then puts an arm around you. “I hate to say it, but that’s actually pretty classic Kaiba-kun,” she explains. “You’re aware that he’s, er, not the most emotionally forthcoming person, obviously...”

You nod. You are aware.

“So we were all pretty fuckin’ surprised,” Honda continues for her, “when Kaiba suddenly has this...you know, BFF, that he actually voluntarily spends time with and seems to genuinely like.”

“In a way, it makes sense,” Anzu says. “When Kaiba-kun gets attached, he _really_ gets attached. Atem-” She cuts herself off, shaking her head. “Sorry. That part isn’t for me to tell you. But the point is, we’ve all known him since high school, and he’s always had trouble admitting that he cares about people, even when he clearly does.”

“That jerk has literally saved our lives, and then turned around and made some dumb excuse for doing it, and then later refused to acknowledge he did it at all,” Honda says, with a bitter laugh.

“Wait,” you say, holding up your hands. “Pause. What kind of life-threatening situations have you guys all been in together?”

Anzu and Honda exchange glances. “So,” Anzu says, “that’s, um, kind of a _very_ big discussion, and one we should have with Yuugi and Jou here, too. Can you just trust us for now that we’ve been through a lot with Kaiba-kun?”

You nod, feeling more than a little overwhelmed.

“Okay,” Honda continues. “So you and Kaiba. Surprising at first, and then the more we get to know you, totally makes sense. First off, you guys were online gaming friends, and Kaiba is well-known for using games as an emotional outlet. So right off the bat, there’s a natural closeness, because you speak his language. Then you two actually meet up in person, and it turns out - wow, he’s found someone just as emotionally fucking constipated as he is.”

You want to argue, but you can’t, so you shrug in agreement.

“So, like, of _course_ he’s comfortable around you,” Honda says. “You’re safe. You’re not going to ask a lot of him, because you also don’t want him to ask a lot of you.”

“Right,” Anzu agrees. “He can flirt with you all he wants, because on some level he’s aware that nothing’s going to come of it. And you do the same thing to him. If either of you were doing this whole stupid ritual with anyone else, that person would have sat you down and had the _what are we_ talk around the point where you exchanged house keys.”

“Earlier, probably,” Honda corrects. “You two morons fumbled your way into a whole-ass relationship without ever having an upfront discussion about it.”

“So now...” you say slowly, “I’ve changed the parameters, because I’m actually asking him to talk about it.”

“Correct,” Anzu says. “Look. I’m not going to tell you my theories on why Kaiba-kun is so scared to acknowledge this.” She gives your shoulder a squeeze. “And I’m not going to ask what’s going on with _you_ that makes it so hard for you to face up to your feelings. I’m just telling you that it’s time for that discussion now. You can’t avoid it anymore.”

“That’s right,” Honda echoes, “if not for your own sake, then for the sake of your friends, who are literally going to kick it from the sheer stress of watching the most idiotic relationship in history unfold in slow motion.”

“Well, if it’s for you guys,” you say defeatedly, “I suppose I can do my best.”

* * *

You barge in on Seto in his office at nine p.m. on a Wednesday, which is highly inappropriate in practically every way, but the jerk won’t pick up your phone calls and isn’t home every time you check.

You’re surprised to see him, because you’d assumed you’d meet a little more resistance - maybe his secretary would have told you he was busy, or he would’ve locked his door, or something. He doesn’t look surprised to see you in the slightest. In fact, his face bears a look of total resignation, which you think probably isn’t a good sign.

Seto folds his arms and leans back in his office chair. “Close the door and have a seat,” he says, as if he’s your supervisor and about to reprimand you.

You close the door and sit down in the chair on the other side of his desk. Your heart is pounding. You have the distinct feeling that you’ve fucked up somehow, and that you’re really not going to enjoy whatever conversation follows.

He won’t look at you, because he is too busy glaring at a potted plant over in the corner of his office. You mirror his pose, folding your arms and leaning back in your chair, as you steel yourself for what you feel is inevitably coming - an argument, for sure, and possibly the end of-

“I have been informed,” Seto says, sounding completely exasperated, “that I am in love with you.”

You blink, and your heart leaps into your throat. “Er,” you say dumbly. “What?”

“I have been informed-”

“I heard you,” you manage, though your mouth is suddenly quite dry. “Who, uh...who informed you?”

“Yuugi,” Seto grits out.

“Okay,” you say. You take a deep breath. This is going somewhere you were _completely_ unprepared for. “Do you...agree with that assessment?”

Seto’s frown deepens. He is apparently trying to glare a burning hole into his potted plant, a very nice fern that doesn’t deserve it.

“After being presented with a very thorough and logical set of data, and then confirming that data with my brother,” Seto says, looking like it’s taking him massive effort to force out each word, “I am forced to agree with his conclusion.”

Wow. Romantic.

“I see,” you say, your heart pounding nonetheless.

Seto finally looks at you. “So?” he says coolly, but you can see a little flicker of something cross his eyes.

You can do this. Seto was honest with you, even if the way he went about it was a little bureaucratic. You inhale, clench your fists, and have at it.

“I’m really, really in love with you and have been for a long time I think possibly since even before we met in person,” you say, all in one breath.

Seto coughs awkwardly. “Yes, I...I believe that was the case for me as well.”

“Didn’t you say you’d always pictured me as a gremlin?” you blurt out, before you can stop yourself.

“Yes, and also a man, but that’s neither here nor there.”

You can’t help it. You start to laugh. “Oh,” you giggle in a hysterical sort of way, “is _that_ why you basically ran away the minute you saw me in person?”

“Stop laughing, you little asshole,” Seto says sternly, but you can see the corner of his lips twitching.

“Okay,” you choke out, taking a deep breath. “Okay, I’m done.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“All right,” Seto says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. “So...what now?”

You think about that for a moment. “Well...what do you _want?_ ”

“What?”

You’re not sure exactly how you’re supposed to dumb it down even further, but you make a valiant attempt. “Do you...want to be together?”

“Yes, obviously,” Seto snaps, a hint of colour rising to his cheeks.

“Don’t you _yes, obviously_ me,” you scold him. “Last time I brought this up-”

“I have now been made aware of exactly what a relationship entails, and that we’re already fulfilling many of the criteria,” Seto interrupts, “and so I’ve changed my position, although I have some terms.”

“Terms,” you say in disbelief.

“What is your problem? Yuugi said that proactive communication of one’s preferences is essential-”

“Okay,” you cut him off, resigned. “Let’s hear them.”

* * *

Seto’s terms are as such: he wants to spend weekends together, and he wants your relationship to be public.

The first one had been a no-brainer, but the second had been a little more daunting. Seto isn’t quite the level of Japanese celebrity that is required by an agency to make a formal announcement about his relationship status, and Japan doesn’t have much in the way of paparazzi, but it’s still going to become a story of some sort if Kaiba Seto is caught engaging in PDA with a foreign musician - in both his circles and in yours.

You haven’t given him an answer yet, and he won’t budge - he is _adamant_ that if you two are together, he doesn’t want to hide it.

It’s utterly baffling to you - you both have a lot at stake, career-wise, and it just seems ridiculous to invite that whole extra level of scrutiny when you could just enjoy being together peacefully in private.

“Look,” you try and explain to him, while you’re both in a sort of compromising position on your couch. “At the Christmas reception, Fukuda was trying his best to accuse me of social climbing-”

“I took care of that,” Seto says impatiently, and then kisses a spot just under your jaw that basically turns your entire body into jelly. “As far as anyone knows, that jackass was actually the one to introduce us.”

“Right,” you say, with a sharp inhale as Seto’s hands drift up towards your ribcage. “But that was before - ah - before I won the audition, so...”

“It was a blind audition, moron-” he pauses to kiss you - it’s another few minutes before he can tear himself away, but then he continues right on like he’d never stopped talking in the first place, “-so any accusations of favouritism would imply a flaw in the audition process. As such, Fujimori’s going to stamp out any of that gossip with a vengeance.”

You genuinely cannot tell if he’s making good points or if your brain has entirely vacated the building, but you’re feeling less and less reservations. “What about your career, then?”

“What about it?”

“Don’t you have - mm - concerned shareholders, or-”

“I’ve fended off assassination attempts, multiple hostile takeovers, and lawsuits following massive property damage. A girlfriend shouldn’t be a problem.”

You resolve to ask about some of those in more detail, but for the time being you’ve been thoroughly distracted, even from your original topic.

* * *

“Okay,” you say, folding your arms and fixing Seto with a scrutinizing glare. “I accept your terms.”

You can tell Seto is trying hard not to look too pleased. “I see,” he says, and then he reaches up and pulls you down into the armchair beside to him, keeping an arm loosely around your waist as he discards his laptop, consigning it to the coffee table. He turns and kisses the side of your head. “You know, I never asked,” he says into your ear. “Do you have any terms of your own?”

You’re tempted to think of something horrible, like matching couple sweaters, just for revenge. You don’t. There’s only one thing you really want that you don’t have already.

“Um,” you falter, blushing furiously. “Sometimes, when we’re, er, out in public together. Do you think we could...hold hands?”

So sue you. You like holding hands. A lot.

Seto makes a rather undignified snorting sound, and you can tell by the shaking of his shoulders that he’s trying extremely hard not to laugh.

“Don’t you fucking laugh at me!” you protest, trying to wiggle away from him. He tightens his grip.

“Yes, I think that can be arranged,” he says, finally giving up on the endeavour of holding his laughter in.

Later, the two of you and Mokuba sit around the kitchen island, drafting a PR strategy. Mokuba takes the lead, because Seto’s suggestions are categorically terrible and tend to fall along the lines of _just issue a fucking press release and everyone can deal with it,_ or _if anyone complains I’ll sue them into the ground for defamation_.

“Criticism isn’t defamation, nii-sama,” Mokuba says, in the tired sort of way that implies they’ve had this conversation many times before.

“Do we have to, um, issue a press release?” you squeak.

“No,” Mokuba says patiently. He gives Seto a look. “We don’t actually have to address it directly at all. If I just prep the PR department in advance, then we’ll have a canned response ready to go whenever the story breaks. I’m anticipating a couple of pain points - you being a foreigner, mainly, and also backlash from Seto’s fangirls-”

“Who don’t actually exist, and are a fabrication of our PR department-”

“Who _do_ exist, which you would know if you actually went anywhere on the internet other than Duel Monsters forums and tech news sites-”

“Where are these supposed fangirls of mine, if not on Duel Monsters forums?”

“Nii-sama. We have _talked_ about this. I have sent you links to _fansites_ -”

“I refuse to look at that trash.”

And so on, and so forth, until Mokuba’s hammered out a very sound strategy with no help from either of you and finished with a warning about judicious social media usage.

“I’d say _welcome to the family,_ ” Mokuba says, wrapping you in a hug, “but that ship sailed a long time ago, huh, nee-san?”

And with that, Kaiba Seto is officially your boyfriend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS JUST IN: These two are still idiots. More at 10. 
> 
> This chapter is basically "two emotionally-stunted disasters experience marginal emotional growth and are very uncomfortable about it but they push through so they can get back to making out"
> 
> Guys, I'm so nervous about these kissing scenes (ノ*°▽°*) Let me know how I'm doing....lmao or mercy kill me, either one is fine,,,
> 
> Again, no music in this chapter! It's coming back soon. We all just needed a break. LOL. P.S. - the author does not share the reader's opinions on Schubert. Schubert is a thoroughly inoffensive composer who writes some very pretty things. I just wrote it bc the thought of a musician having a random grudge against Schubert is hilarious to me.
> 
> To make up for maligning Schubert in my writing, I'm just going to go ahead and link you all to a VERY pretty song that otherwise would never make it into this fic: [Schubert - Ave Maria](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tDQj7j-xogM) sung by Barbara Bonney who is.......fucking SUBLIME you guys. Her voice is ethereal. If you need a beautiful pick-me-up for today, this is it.
> 
> As always can't wait to hear all your thoughts <3 Hope everyone is having a nice Wednesday, or whatever day it is when you read this!


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch. 15: RETURN OF THE ORCHESTRA (did you miss these assholes?)

“San-chan,” you say, clasping both her hands in yours. Sanada is seated across from you at the table. You’re on break at the coffee shop, leaving Jounouchi to man the till, and you’ve made her an _insanely_ extravagant latte with all of her favourite flavours and toppings.

“Yes?” Sanada says sweetly, smiling back at you.

“Look, I need to tell you something. It’s something I should have told you a long time ago,” you say. You try to convey with your tone just how sincere you are.

“You can tell me anything,” Sanada replies encouragingly, squeezing your hands. “You know I’ll always be here for you.”

“Company policy forbids employee dating,” your manager says in total exasperation as she walks by the table. “Can you two do this somewhere else?”

You both ignore her, and she retreats with a frustrated grunt to the back.

“Anyways,” you say delicately. “I want to tell you the identity of MajorKusanagi896.”

Sanada gasps in anticipation, squeezing your fingers with all her might. You wince, suddenly feeling like you’re losing your nerve a little.

“It’s, um...it’s Kaiba Seto.”

“...What? Not funny, I’ve been waiting to find out forever-” Sanada cuts herself off as the look on your face makes it very clear that you aren’t joking.

“Oh,” she says, her eyes blowing wide. “It’s...it’s _Kaiba Seto?_ ”

“Don’t sound so impressed,” Jounouchi calls from the till. “He’s just some fuckface.”

“That’s true,” you say, nodding solemnly. “His public image is mostly a lie.” You pick up your phone and navigate to a selfie you and Mokuba had taken, making peace signs, while Seto is clearly trying to escape the shot and looks furious to have been caught on camera, like he’s some kind of vampire king.

Sanada takes the phone from you and stares at it with huge eyes for a moment. “Wow,” she breathes. “He’s so pretty up close. And angry.”

You shrug. That’s a fairly accurate summary.

“You left out the part where he’s your boyfriend, _finally,_ because you’re both _so_ fuckin’ dumb it took you-”

“I was getting to that, Jounouchi-kun,” you say, making a face at him.

“Oh, _finally!_ ” Sanada echoes, squealing. “I knew it! I knew that part! You were meant to be with Kusanagi-kun!”

So, apparently everyone knew but you. Okay. That’s fine. You’re on an emotional awareness journey.

“Man,” you sigh, suddenly feeling exhausted. “I’m just so relieved, you know?”

“Uh huh.” Sanada nods happily. “It feels good to have your love out in the open, ne?”

“Oh for the _love of god_ ,” your manager says, and promptly turns around and vanishes back into the stockroom she’d just exited.

* * *

_What do you think about this laptop?_

Attached is an image of an impossibly sleek and powerful-looking computer.

 _No_ , you text back.

You receive, in return, the link to a generic listicle titled “46 Best Gift Ideas for Couples,” and then another text message reading simply _#27_. You don’t even have to check the list to know that Seto has found some kind of stupid article listing a laptop computer as an appropriate gift for one’s girlfriend, and he thinks that this means you now have to agree with him because the internet said so.

 _N O_ , you text, and then turn off your phone for rehearsal.

This week you’re playing Brahms _Symphony no. 3_ , the third movement of which is one of your favourites of all time. You sometimes feel a little weepy when practicing it. The point is, you can’t help but be in a good mood, even though Fukuda is back on his bullshit in a major way.

“God, this movement is _so_ cheesy,” he complains, then puts his violin to his shoulder and plays a few bars in the most annoyingly overdramatic way possible, making a stupid sappy face the entire time.

You want to smack him in said stupid face with your bow, but you refrain.

“Just kidding,” he says slyly, grinning at you. “I know you love this one, ne? Because that’s the face you make when you play it.”

“Are you a grade schooler?” you snap back.

“Let’s all please quiet down and work hard,” Arima says evenly, in a way that could be addressing the entire section but is clearly meant for you and Fukuda. You are, after all, officially assistant co-concertmasters, and responsible for setting an example for the orchestra.

It’s fine. You’re still in a good mood. You’re playing _Symphony no. 3_ and today is the day you crack Koizumi.

“Koizumi-kun~” you sing out, jogging to catch up with him during break. “Ne, you mind if I borrow him for lunch, Takeda-kun?”

Takeda looks between the two of you, and shrugs. “Take him, he’s all yours.”

“Hey,” Koizumi complains, “you can’t just give me away-” Takeda is already long gone down the sidewalk, so his protests are in vain.

“Thanks for agreeing, Koizumi-kun,” you say cheerfully. “Ramen today?”

“Well, I was actually kind of craving-”

“Ramen,” you say definitively. “It’s a ramen kind of day.”

By the time you arrive at the neighbourhood’s worst ramen-ya, and Koizumi realizes that you’ve dragged him into a trap, it’s too late for him to escape with any sort of grace. As an assistant concertmaster, you are officially his sempai now. You feel a little bad for abusing your position, but it’s for a good cause, you reason.

“The ramen here is no good,” Koizumi says in a last-bid attempt to escape. The proprietor clearly hears him but doesn’t seem to take offense.

“We’re not here for the ramen,” you reply with a sweet smile.

Koizumi’s shoulders slump in defeat and he places an order for the tonkotsu ramen. You think about it wistfully, then order a small portion of miso soup, because you’re pretty sure Seto would kill you if he found out you’d deviated from your strict recovery diet.

“Listen,” Koizumi says, as soon as your meals arrive. He takes a resigned bite of his noodles. “There’s just certain stuff I can’t repeat, all right? I could get in big trouble with-” his eyes widen a little, and he shuts himself up with a spoonful of broth.

“I’m not asking you to tell me what happened to my predecessor,” you say, frowning. “I just...Fukuda said something weird to me, and I wanted to know what you thought about it.”

“Easy. Literally everything that comes out of Fukuda’s mouth is bullshit.”

You sigh. “Just listen to me, okay? Before the audition, Fukuda told me to drop out. He said I didn’t want to be in this chair, and that nothing good would come of it.”

“He probably believes what he’s saying,” Koizumi says with a shrug.

“He also told me to watch out for Arima-san.”

Koizumi takes another suspiciously big bite of noodles, presumably to give himself time to think as he chews.

“Look,” Koizumi says, finally. “Ask Kao-chan, okay? She owes you one, for dragging you into all this shit.”

* * *

“So he just told me to ask Nakai-kun,” you complain, glaring at the ceiling.

“Hmm,” Seto says, still typing away on his laptop. You’re sprawled out on his couch, your head resting on his thigh as he works, with Egg splayed across your stomach. You’re just about to give him shit for not listening when he pipes up again. “I doubt Nakai feels like she owes you anything. She probably feels like she did you a favour.”

“I mean, she kind of did,” you point out. “She gave me a heads up, and now I have a great job.”

“She gave you an _incomplete_ heads-up to trick you into accepting a job that was way more difficult than you thought it would be.”

“I knew what I was getting into,” you say with a shrug. “Orchestras are drama pits from hell.”

“Just like any company, I suppose.”

“Correct. Hey, speaking of. How was _your_ drama pit from hell today?"

This triggers a _lengthy_ rant on how one of the directors of Research and Development has become obsessed with a trendy new American project management framework, while another is slavishly devoted to more traditional practices, and if they don’t stop bickering about it Seto is going to force them both to adopt one of _his_ choosing, et cetera. You love listening to him go off on weird tangents about the minutiae of organizational culture and governance. He gets so worked up. He’s such a nerd.

“What are you smiling about?” Seto says eventually, raising an eyebrow. “Is this amusing to you?”

“No,” you say. “I’m just happy. I like listening to you talk.”

“Gross,” Mokuba says from the kitchen.

This is your third weekend staying at the Kaiba penthouse. It’s rapidly become the thing you look forward to most every week. Friday and Saturday nights are your concert nights, of course, but now they’re bookended by dinner with Seto and Mokuba and often video games or movies afterwards, as late as you can all stay up. Saturday breakfasts are with Mokuba - it’s one of Seto’s favourite times to spend in the office, as it’s deserted enough that he can get a lot of work done without interruption - and then Sunday mornings are breakfast with Seto, because Mokuba is usually sleeping off a hangover.

Seto gives Mokuba a look, and Mokuba laughs obnoxiously back at him with his mouth full of noodles.

You catch a glimpse of Seto’s inexplicable analog wristwatch. “Oh, fuck me, it’s almost six thirty. I’ve gotta go get ready.” You jump up off the couch, displacing a disgruntled Egg from your lap, and head for the guest room.

“Why so early?” Seto calls after you. “The concert’s not until eight.”

“It’s half an hour on my bike and I want to warm up for at least another half hour,” you call back. “Do the math.”

“I don’t see why you won’t let me drive-”

You close the door, pretending you didn’t hear him. You’re already extremely nervous that both he and Mokuba will be attending tonight, and you feel that there’s a difference between being open about your relationship and outright inviting speculation by rolling up to the concert hall in Kaiba Seto’s ridiculous Audi.

There is, however, one matter you need his help with.

“Hey...” you say hesitantly, stepping back into the kitchen once your stuff is packed and you’re mostly ready to go. “You guys both know how to tie a bowtie.”

“You bet we do,” Mokuba says, taking a bite of his noodles. “What’s the occasion?”

“I’m switching my concert blacks,” you say. “The old ones were kinda getting worn out, so I found this great tux on sale...”

“A tux?” Mokuba says with interest. “Oh, that’s _cool_. But aren’t orchestras really strict about dress code?”

You nod. “Yeah. There was this big kerfuffle in America a few years back about letting women wear tuxes, and now more and more people are doing it all over the world, and I kinda thought that as one of the concertmasters...”

“You could be more progressive, and set the example for your coworkers to follow, if they wish,” Seto says approvingly.

“But you don’t know how to tie a bowtie,” Mokuba laughs. “Got it. Seto can teach you, he’s really good at it. He taught me when I was a kid.”

Picturing the tiny Kaiba brothers learning how to tie a bowtie is so cute you feel like you might die on the spot. You manage to contain yourself as Seto patiently works through the steps with you.

“It’s fine if it’s not symmetrical at first,” he says, tugging on the edges. “You just keep adjusting it, like this...”

It turns out so perfect you’re afraid to fuck with it. “Thank you,” you beam up at him, getting up and hefting your violin over your shoulder. Something about having a perfectly-tied bowtie is a hell of a confidence booster. “I’m changing into the rest of my stuff at the hall, but I’m just gonna keep this as it is. I don’t want to wreck it.”

“So you’re just going to bike there in...a Seinfeld t-shirt and bowtie,” Mokuba says with a snort.

“It’s avant-garde fashion. Honda-kun would approve.”

“That’s probably true.”

Seto walks you to the elevator, and adjusts your bowtie one last time. “All right, then,” he says gruffly. “Off with you, Assistant Concertmaster.”

This gruff tone is rather offset by the way he cups your face in his hands, leans down, and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek before sending you off. Hey, you’re not complaining.

* * *

The Brahms _Symphony no. 3_ goes spectacularly, and the third movement is everything you’d hoped and dreamed it would be. Even Fukuda can’t kill your post-concert high by humming the theme in an offensively overwrought way as you all head offstage.

“You look so cool in your tux,” Hasegawa says shyly to you. “Ne, you think I could wear one too?”

“There’s no rule saying you can’t, Hasegawa-kun,” Arima says. “Although I’m not entirely sure that look would suit you.”

Hasegawa deflates a little, and the two of you watch him walk away in silence. The mild rebuke had been delivered in his usual pleasant way, but it really doesn’t sit right with you. “Don’t listen to him,” you murmur to Hasegawa. “You’d look amazing.”

Instead of just changing and leaving through stage door, you head to the lobby instead to try and intercept Seto and Mokuba. You take a deep breath and steel yourself. You had promised Seto that your relationship would be public, and that means not escaping through back doors into the alleyway whenever there’s a possibility of you two being seen together.

Of course, you’d been so worried about _Seto_ being discreet that you’d entirely failed to account for Mokuba, who immediately slams into you with an enthusiastic hug. “You looked awesome up there!” he says happily. “It sounded great, too. I can’t believe you never let us come before!”

“Sorry,” you laugh, hugging him back. “Hey, wanna get something to eat?”

“Oh, you fuckin’ bet,” Mokuba says. “There’s this new restaurant in Akasaka I’ve been wanting to-”

As Mokuba chatters on, Seto gives you a questioning look. You smile and hold out your hand, and he takes it in his as you all walk out the lobby together.

* * *

“I’m not joking. It was one of the biggest feuds in classical music history. Historians called it the _War of the Romantics._ On the one side you had Brahms and the Schumanns, and on the other side Liszt and Wagner. There was a manifesto and everything.”

Seto looks deeply amused. You’re stretched out on his bed side-by-side, chatting about the concert. “And what were the points of contention?”

“Oh, you know,” you say. “Chromatic harmony, programmatic music, that kind of thing.”

“Sounds controversial.”

“Hey,” you tease, pushing his shoulder. “If this whole city is allowed to lose its shit about Duel Monsters all the time, classical musicians are allowed to fight to the death over chromatic harmony.”

“I’d like to see that,” Seto snorts. “As if classical musicians would...”

“There was very nearly a duel at the premiere of _Symphony no. 3_ ,” you interrupt him. “Wagner fans started it. Even though Wagner was already dead by that point.”

“I stand corrected,” Seto says gravely. “Anyone willing to die for their cause has my respect.”

“Thank you,” you say, rolling over to face him. You smile up at him, trying to make him read your mind.

He does. “You’re the least subtle person I’ve ever met,” Seto grumbles, but bends down to kiss you just the same. You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in closer. He does that truly amazing thing again, where he grazes your bottom lip with his teeth; you literally can’t help but respond by slipping your hands under his soft cotton t-shirt; and that gets him so worked up that suddenly his tongue is in your mouth, and so on and so forth. Before you know it you’re completely entangled.

Said entanglement winds down quite naturally after a while, ending with gentle kisses and murmurs. You haven’t talked yet about taking things further. That’s just fine with you, and you’re sure it will come up eventually.

“Stay in here,” Seto says, kissing your temple.

You feel yourself flush immediately. You hadn’t expected it to be _quite_ this soon.

“Ah - no,” Seto says, a blush creeping up over his own cheeks. “I meant -”

It’s pretty rare to see him this flustered, and you’re definitely enjoying it, but when he sighs and buries his face in the crook of your neck in resignation you decide to help him out a little bit.

“Like, you mean...just to sleep?”

You feel him nod.

You think about that for a minute. “I haven’t...” you begin hesitantly. “I’ve never done that before.”

Seto pulls back to look at you in surprise. “Slept in a bed with someone else?”

You shake your head.

“What about...parents? Siblings?”

“I don’t know any of my siblings,” you say with a shrug. “And my mom wasn’t the affectionate type. But...” you move a little closer to him, resting your head against his chest. “I think it sounds kind of nice.”

“Wait,” Seto says. “ _Wait._ You can’t just - drop a sentence like that -”

“Huh?”

Seto grabs your shoulders and pulls you away from him so he can look at you. “You don’t know your siblings? Why did you only refer to your mother, and why in the past tense?”

“Um...” you hesitate, uncomfortable with the direction this conversation has taken. “Because she’s dead?”

By the way Seto is staring at you, it’s clear he expects a little more out of you than that.

You shrug uneasily. “I have a lot of half-siblings I’ve never met because my dad’s a sleaze. Mom died a few years ago. Cancer. Is that what you wanted to know?”

Seto pulls you back into his chest, and is silent for a long time.

“Seto?” you prod nervously.

“I was just thinking...” Seto’s voice trails off for a moment. “It feels...troubling that I didn’t know any of this about you. Like I haven’t been paying enough attention.”

“It’s not your fault,” you rush to reassure him. “It just didn’t come up.”

“But that’s not the point, is it?” he says, his tone impossible to decipher. “The point is that we’ve known each other for _years_ without it ever coming up.”

You feel a little defensive. “I mean, neither of us are particularly open with these things. I feel like most of what I know about your history is stuff that’s publicly available online.”

“That’s true,” Seto says slowly. “But this feeling I’m having right now...I wonder if this is how Yuugi and the others...”

“How they’ve always felt when trying to get to know you?” you venture. The look on his face shows that you’ve hit your mark.

He doesn’t respond, and you think about that for some time - about the trail of six-month visas, half-realized friendships, and promises to keep in touch that you’ve left behind you - long past the point where Seto’s breathing evens out into sleep.

* * *

You’d expected Seto to be gone when you woke up, because he has an inexplicable love for working on Saturday mornings and is usually at the office by seven.

What you had not expected was to wake up completely pinned by six feet and three inches of long limbs and utter dead weight, with no sign of escape on the horizon.

By all accounts Seto is an infrequent, twitchy and light sleeper, usually managing four to five hours a night before his indomitably active brain propels itself into wakefulness and he is compelled to go and be productive or he dies. (That’s the only way you can explain the time you ran into him at three in the morning sketching out schematics at the kitchen island.) However, it’s seven o’clock now and he shows no signs of waking up.

“Guess we’re sleeping in this morning, huh,” you say, carding a hand through his hair. No response. He genuinely looks dead. You can feel him breathing, so you know he’s _not_ dead, but it’s still profoundly bizarre to see your human dynamo of a boyfriend this quiet and still.

He looks younger asleep. It’s really cute.

“Are you dead?” you say, after another hour passes. You poke him gently in the cheek. Still no response - not even a twitch.

“Hey. Blink twice if you’re not dead.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Seto groans, tightening his arms around you and burying his face into your neck.

Okay, definitely not dead, but apparently you’re trapped for the foreseeable future. You manage to work your other arm free to grab your phone off the bedside table and spend the next forty-five minutes playing Graveyard Keeper while maintaining a steady rhythm of running your fingers through his hair. Whatever part of his brain is currently active seems to really like it, as whenever you stop he makes a sort of upset grumbling sound.

“Stop it,” he mutters finally. “I can’t wake up while you’re doing that.”

“So? It’s Saturday morning.”

Seto struggles into a sitting position, looking confused and _very_ disoriented. “What? How long was I asleep for?”

“Eight hours,” you say patiently.

Seto narrows his eyes as if he doesn’t like that at all and possibly suspects you of having drugged him. “Unbelievable,” he says, shaking his head. You smile innocently back at him, and in the end he can’t help but give you the kiss you’re so clearly angling for.

* * *

Something keeps clattering around in your head, its hard edges bouncing off your skull. Something Honda had said.

_You’re safe. You’re not going to ask a lot of him, because you also don’t want him to ask a lot of you._

You know that you and Seto have made some pretty significant strides in communication - you’ve been open about your feelings with each other, for one, and you’re both trying your best to talk about stressors in your lives instead of compulsively hiding them from each other. But there’s been a strange distance growing between you in the last couple weeks, ever since that night you spent in his room, which you haven’t been invited to do again. It’s not easy to put a finger on. You’re spending just as much time together, talking on the phone and texting when you can’t see each other in person. You’re visiting KaibaCorp for lunch with Seto and Yuugi and Mokuba, and whenever Seto doesn’t have afternoon meetings he’ll show up at your apartment, briefcase in hand, and spend a few hours working on your couch while you chat about this and that and Egg walks all over both of you. It’s all normal - maybe a little too normal.

You’re thinking about your mom a lot these days. Just random things, like the way she’d sounded when she laughed, or the smell of her perfume. It makes you feel uncomfortable, like some kind of pressure is closing in on you from all sides.

* * *

_Let’s have coffee, ne? It’s been too long~_

You stare at Nakai’s text, your nose wrinkling in suspicion.

“She knows you’ve been sniffing around,” Seto says, reading it over your shoulder. “She’s trying to intercept you before you try and talk to anyone other than Koizumi.”

You grimace at the phone. “Seriously. It takes balls to send a text like this after months of radio silence.”

Seto shrugs. “Nakai’s a tactician through and through.”

“So are you,” you point out, grinning and planting a kiss on his jawline. “What do you think her game is?”

“Hm,” Seto says, putting his laptop aside and wrapping both arms around you, almost absently. He thinks for a moment. “Well, let’s examine the facts. Both Nakai and Fujimori wanted you in that chair. Fukuda did not. Whoever was in the chair previously left under very difficult circumstances, and possibly not of their own volition. No one will talk about it, which suggests that there could be some ramifications for doing so. My guess is that there’s an ongoing situation, and Nakai believed you’d be tough enough to handle it.”

“Ongoing situation? As in, it might come up again?”

“Likely,” Seto says, pressing a kiss just under your ear. “If it were resolved, everyone wouldn’t be so afraid to say anything. I don’t like this. I think you need to be careful.”

“I disagree,” you say. “That’s all I’ve been doing for the past six months. I’m in a position now to actually make a difference in the orchestra, and I feel like I should at least know what’s going on.”

“You don’t owe these people anything,” Seto argues. “You’ve been - you’ve been harassed, and pressured into insane work hours, and driven to severe illness-”

“I did that to myself,” you counter calmly. “I made my own decisions. Now they’re my co-workers, and I’m in a leadership role for my section. It would be very irresponsible of me not to feel invested in everyone’s well-being.”

Seto sighs, and rests his head on yours. “I should know by now,” he mutters into your hair, “that I can’t talk you out of anything.”

“No,” you say with a smile. “But I’m really glad I have you on my side.”

* * *

You invite Nakai to the coffee shop where you work, because it’s your home turf and you feel like maybe it will give you a psychological advantage. Also your coffee shop makes the best matcha lattes in the vicinity, and you don’t feel like you can handle this conversation without a good matcha latte.

Nakai takes a casual sip of her tea. “You’re looking well,” she says sweetly. “We were all so worried when you were absent the week after the audition.”

You know exactly what she’s doing - she’s warning you that you showed weakness, and that it’s been noted.

“So kind of you all to be concerned about a mild flu,” you laugh, waving her off. “It really has been a long time, hasn’t it, Nakai-kun? How have the past few months been treating you?”

“Great,” Nakai chirps. “I’ve been really busy. Not as busy as you, of course. It looks like all your hard work paid off, ne? I hear you were auto-advanced after all.”

“All thanks to you,” you say, smiling. “It was only because of your kind advice that I was able to make a good impression on Fujimori-san. In fact, I was just telling Hasegawa-kun about the time you took me out for coffee-”

“You promised me you wouldn’t tell anyone about that,” Nakai snaps, clearly taken off-guard.

“Apologies,” you say. “It must have slipped my mind.”

It didn’t. You haven’t said anything to Hasegawa.

“Why is that, though?” you wonder. “It was just a little friendly advice. It’s not like you and Fujimori were conspiring together to throw me into a fucking pit of vipers.” You maintain your pleasant tone and smile throughout.

“Oh, come on,” Nakai laughs, rolling her eyes. “You did great.”

“With no help from you.”

“How could I have possibly helped you?” Nakai says with a shrug. “You were the one putting in all the hard work, just like I knew you would.”

“You could have told me what happened to the previous assistant concertmaster,” you say. “Let me know what I was getting into.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Nakai says mildly. “The previous assistant concertmaster left suddenly, they rushed the hell out of auditions, and Fujimori immediately hired a contractor that she clearly wanted to push into the chair instead of leaving it empty for just a few months. _Obviously_ they were trying to cover something up. You knew exactly what you were getting into.”

“No, I didn’t,” you argue, “because everyone’s still so scared to talk about it that it’s obvious whatever it is could become a problem again.”

“Listen,” Nakai says. “Stop asking around, if you know what’s good for you. No one’s going to tell you anything. Just watch your back, keep up the good work, and don’t fuck up. Okay?”

“No.” You shake your head. “Not okay. Besides, you’re wrong. Fukuda told me something.”

“Fukuda?” Nakai says, openly surprised. “What did he say?”

“He told me to watch out for Arima-san.”

Nakai takes a long sip of her tea, peering at you over the edge of her cup. “Well, well,” she says finally. “I guess there is something Fukuda and I agree on, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we get into some of the reasons that the reader is just as avoidant and emotionally oblivious as Seto, and also a subconscious sort of reason that they're drawn to each other. In some ways it's easier to relate to someone else who shares similar trauma, because there's an unspoken understanding, but also more difficult if both of you have less emotional tools available than your average person. In this story I write about Jounouchi as someone who faces his trauma in a very healthy way, accepting love and support from those around him while still maintaining his independence. Reader and Seto are getting there, but sometimes talking about trauma can cause sort of a reflexive "pull-back" reaction at first - almost like you're rejecting emotional closeness from the other person _before_ they can reject you for your vulnerability.
> 
> **Music mentioned in this chapter:**  
> [Brahms - Symphony no. 3, 3rd movement](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2tB2SLLnPZg) \- P.S. It really is true that there was almost a duel to the death at the premiere of this piece. Classical music stans are intense. 
> 
> **Orchestral terms & tidbits:**  
> 1\. _Concert blacks_ are the traditional orchestral dress for women - either long-sleeved black shirt and long black pants or a long black skirt. I wish I were kidding, but [until 2018 there was still debate about letting women wear pants.](https://www.nytimes.com/2018/06/14/arts/music/new-york-philharmonic-women-dress-code.html) Musicians' concert dress is actually written very specifically into their contract and there can be real repercussions for failing to adhere. Basically reader is pulling off a pretty ballsy move here.
> 
> How are we all feeling about Arc III so far? Actually, scratch that - how are we all feeling in general? This year has been fking nuts so far - I hope you're all holding up okay <3


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Seto bangs into your apartment with the force of a hurricane, practically hurling his briefcase at the ground in a fit of grown-man drama.

“ _Okaeri_ ,” you call out pleasantly.

“ _Tadaima_ ,” Seto grits out, ripping his coat off. Egg stares at him from his perch on top of the fridge, as if he’s weighing whether it will be worth his while to get up. He decides that no, there will probably be no cuddles involved, and promptly goes back to sleep.

“What are you doing?” you say, not bothering to look as you listen to Seto clattering around the kitchen.

“Making a fucking cup of coffee, and I don’t want to hear _any_ complaints about it.”

“Okay.”

The clattering stops. “What do you mean, _okay?_ ”

You shrug and make another move in your phone Solitaire game. “If that’s what you feel you need right now, I’m not gonna stop you. I just don’t think it’s going to be effective.”

You know exactly what he’s doing. Seto has had a horrific day at work - usually the case when you receive text messages laden with expletives in various languages and nothing else - and he’s come to your apartment specifically to pick a fight over evening caffeine intake because the animal part of his brain thinks it will relieve stress.

Another pause. “And I’m assuming you have something more effective in mind?”

“Yes,” you say, finally looking up at him. “Come here and sit down.”

He does, albeit with a rather murderous look. You clamber into his lap, straddling him, and put your hands on either side of his face.

“What’s this?” he says gruffly, although his hands do come up almost of their own accord to rest on your waist.

“We’ve been over the science on this,” you lecture, “so you need to give me at least twenty seconds with no backtalk.”

“I just don’t think it’s going to-”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull him into a firm hug. “Twenty seconds,” you say.

It takes all of ten seconds for him to give up and circle his arms around your waist, his stiff posture slumping over as he practically melts into the hug. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Why is this so effective?”

“This is part one,” you say, graciously choosing not to cite the science to him yet again.

“And what’s part two?”

In response, you thread your fingers through his hair and start moving them in gentle circles, the way you know he likes. He sighs and buries his face into the crook of your neck.

“Part three,” you say after about five minutes. “Talk to me about it.”

“No,” he mumbles.

“Yes.”

“Let’s just stay on part two.”

You kiss the side of his head. “You came over here because you wanted me to make you feel better, so now you have to submit to my methods.”

“I did no such thing.”

You laugh out loud, because he’s so full of shit, and you can feel his smile against the bare skin of your neck.

* * *

You’re lying facedown in Seto’s home-office-slash-your-practice-room, with your head buried in your arms. Your violin lays abandoned in its case. Egg is curled up on your butt, oblivious to your emotional turmoil, enjoying a nap.

“This doesn’t look like practicing,” you hear from somewhere above you.

“There’s no point,” you groan. “I’m a failure as a musician.”

You hear Seto take a few steps into the room and start flipping through your sheet music. “Ah,” he says. “Bruckner.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You get like this every time you have to play Bruckner. Or Schubert, or Bartók, or Wagner. Get up. You can’t just give up and die whenever the orchestra programs repertoire you don’t like.”

“Can’t I?” you mutter into your arms.

A socked toe digs into your ribs. “Up.”

You sigh in exasperation and prop yourself up on your elbows. Egg hops off your butt with an affronted meow and takes off for his second-favourite nap spot: the open lid of your violin case. You’re rewarded for your efforts when Seto wraps you in a firm hug, pulling you in close.

“Do another half hour and then come eat something with me,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Don’t let Bruckner win.”

You laugh. “Okay, okay.”

Even though Seto’s pep talks are by no means gentle or particularly empathetic, they certainly are uniquely motivating. As you watch him leave the room, you’re struck by the thought that having a boyfriend is really quite nice after all.

* * *

And so it goes. There’s give and take. You’ve mostly gotten over the profoundly strange sensation of realizing that you not only like having Seto in your life, but that he’s an essential part of it. After years and years of processing basically everything in your life on your own, now you almost can’t imagine a typical day without texting him your random thoughts, or hearing his voice on the phone, or knowing that if you really want to, you can drop by his office just to feel his arms around you, grounding you firmly in place.

You’ve _mostly_ gotten over it, but there are these moments that make you feel like a chair has been pulled out from under you; moments that fill you with a simultaneous joy and terror, because you don’t know how you’re supposed to ever go back to the way things were before.

You show up at the penthouse one day after a lengthy bike ride with Jounouchi, feeling flushed and well-sunned and content. “Anyone here?” you call out, heading to the kitchen without really waiting for an answer. For once, you’re actually really hungry, and you want to capitalize on it, so you’d dropped by the penthouse just because it was closer than your apartment. There’s some milk pudding left in the fridge - _score_.

“Halt,” comes a voice from behind you.

“Oh, hi!” you say, putting the container of pudding down and throwing yourself into Seto’s arms. “I didn’t know you’d be here!”

“Don’t you _oh, hi_ me,” Seto says sternly, but he leans down to kiss you anyways, and you’re so genuinely excited to see him that you’re maybe a little over-enthusiastic, and before long you find yourself pressed up against the fridge and your hands are under his shirt and neither of you are making much in the way of conversation.

“You are so distracting,” Seto murmurs, once things have cooled down a little. He smooths a strand of hair behind your ear, but it’s kind of a losing battle - between biking and making out, your braid is pretty much hopeless at this point.

“Distracting from what?”

“You’re not supposed to fill up on low-nutrient foods after exercising,” Seto says, frowning even as he presses a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Have we not been over this?”

You have. Many times. “No,” you lie, just to piss him off.

Seto rolls his eyes and grabs you by the shoulders, moving you out of the way so that he can open the fridge. “Look,” he says. “There are five pre-prepared smoothies in here. Why do you think I made those?”

“For your own amusement?”

He gives you a flat, unamused look and slams one down in front of you. It’s an intimidatingly thick smoothie. As in every other area of his life, Seto’s cooking philosophy tends to be to cram as much in as humanly possible.

“Aren’t you gonna ask how my bike ride went?” you say cheerfully, starting in on the smoothie with a spoon.

“Considering that Jounouchi treats that bike of his like a stunt motorcycle, I suppose it’s nice to see that you’re still alive at the end of it.”

“We did that route by the pier,” you chatter on, ignoring him. “It was so nice out, and - guess what! We saw an osprey - hey, what are you doing?”

Seto is standing behind you, his fingers moving through your hair. “Re-doing your braid,” he says absently. “I used to do this for Mokuba when he was small.”

You fall silent as you take another bite. Seto’s hands are gentle but proficient. It feels nice. Sunshine is streaming in through the window, bathing the entire kitchen in a golden glow. You notice that the smoothie tastes really good - peanut butter and banana.

Before you can really understand what’s happening, there are silent tears streaming down your cheeks.

Seto finishes tying your braid in place, and then catches a glimpse of your face. “Hey - what - what is this?” He sounds alarmed, but you have no idea what it is, so you just cover your face with your hands and let him pull you into his chest.

You wonder if maybe that’s what being a little kid was supposed to feel like. Sitting in a sunny kitchen eating a peanut butter sandwich, while someone who loved you gently braided your hair. You don’t know. You can’t remember your mom ever doing that for you, and now that she’s gone, you’ve lost your chance to ask.

* * *

You think Seto has moments like these too. There’s this one time where you pack him a lunch for work - not in a cheesy way, you just think he’s looking a little drawn lately, so you make a few simple things you know he likes and package them into one of the plain makunouchi bento boxes he and Mokuba have stashed in the back of a drawer but never seem to use. When you hand it to him, such a complicated mixture of emotions flickers over his face that at first you think he’s angry.

He’s not. He just looks at you with this strangely raw expression for a moment before bending down and kissing you goodbye without a word.

* * *

“I hope you’ll take this in the spirit of guidance and mentorship that I intend,” Arima says.

You’ve heard those words before, sitting across from him in this very same office. This time, you actually understand that this isn’t what he intends at all.

“While your presence in the orchestra has certainly brought a breath of fresh air,” Arima continues, “and you approach things with an inspiring sense of modernity...”

“This is about the tux, isn’t it,” you cut him off.

A brief flicker of something crosses Arima’s face before he forces his pleasant mask back on. But you’d seen it.

Rage.

“Well, yes,” he says mildly. “I personally think that the look quite suits you. I applaud your bravery in trying new things. However, I’ve heard word that some of our more high-profile donors are rather disturbed by the breach in tradition. As members of an ensemble, we must be careful to ensure that we aren’t making decisions on our own that may affect the rest of the orchestra.”

“There’s nothing in our contracted dress code that says women can’t wear a tux,” you point out, keeping your tone just as bland as his.

“Right,” Arima agrees with a smile. “So I completely understand why you were unaware, and of course no one would ever blame you for the upset caused-”

“Do you mind elaborating on that, Arima-san?” you interrupt again.

“Don’t interrupt me,” Arima snaps. It’s startling. You’ve never heard him snap before. “Don’t worry,” he continues, his tone abruptly softening, “you don’t need to concern yourself about the details. As long as you return to a more conventional dress code, we shouldn’t have an ongoing problem.”

“I would just like to know which donors complained,” you say evenly, “so that I might apologize to them at the reception this weekend, and try to find a common point of view.”

You want to force him into giving you names, because you don’t think there are actually donor complaints. You think it’s _his_ complaint.

“That’s very responsible of you,” Arima says, his face unreadable. “One of them, Miura-san, is out of the country this week and won’t be at the reception. The other is Kaiba Seto.”

You keep your face blank. That conniving _bastard_. You know exactly what he’s doing - using Seto’s name to spark a reaction out of you. He’d clearly noticed how uncomfortable you were with implications that you and Seto knew each other at the Christmas reception. You don’t react. You’re not giving him shit.

Arima studies your face for a moment. “Of course,” he continues with a warm smile, “These complaints weren’t made to me directly, and I’m rather disinclined to believe second-hand reports concerning you and Kaiba-san ever since Fukuda-kun’s unfortunate mistake at the Christmas reception. Can you believe one of the violists is convinced that she saw the two of you holding hands after the Brahms concert?” He laughs gently. “While the two of you would certainly make an attractive pair, the speculation is getting ridiculous.”

You simply smile back in response, and then immediately after he lets you go, you head for the orchestra's administration offices.

* * *

“You did _what?_ ”

“I asked for a meeting with Mizuno.”

“The orchestra administration president. Yes, I remember her. Were you able to see her - Hey. Stop that.”

You nod. You’re sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on his living room floor playing an untested beta of one of KaibaCorp’s racing game titles, and since Seto has won pretty much every round, you’ve given up on beating him and have instead devoted your life to bodily smashing his car off the track at every opportunity. “Oh my,” you say in amusement, as your latest assault causes a truly fantastic glitch that literally flings his car off into the sun, spinning madly.

“Accept defeat gracefully,” Seto lectures you.

You snort. “Oh, because that’s your strong suit.”

“Well?” Seto prompts, as another race begins. “What happened in your meeting?”

“They called in Fujimori and the fundraising director last-minute. It was really intimidating. I hope you don’t mind, but I kind of...announced our relationship?”

Seto’s car goes flying off the track, but you hadn’t been anywhere near him this time. “I see,” he says.

You plow on, because what’s done is done, and if he doesn’t like it then all you can do is apologize afterwards. “I, um, I told them that we’d met at the Christmas reception, and I said that I hadn’t wanted to mention anything because it was still quite new, but when Arima mentioned the rumours to me I felt like the best thing to do was come clean and make sure I wasn’t opening the orchestra up to baseless speculation.” You shrug. “They seemed pretty happy about it, and thanked me for my honesty.”

“Clever move,” Seto says, and you peek over at his face. A smirk is spreading across it, and he puts his controller down and turns to look at you. “You got to them before Arima could, and you made him look like an asshole for pressuring you into disclosing.”

“So you’re not...upset, or anything?” you venture. He doesn’t _look_ upset - in fact, he is grinning like a god damned Cheshire cat, and you have no idea why.

“Upset?” Seto says lowly. He circles a large hand around each of your wrists and then gently pushes you down until your back is on the floor, pinning you underneath him. “Why would I be upset?” He leans down and traces his nose along your collarbone before pressing a kiss into the hollow at your throat. You can’t help the full-body shiver that courses through you, or the little gasp that escapes your lips when he moves up to graze his lips over the tender skin of your neck. Finally he claims your mouth with his, hot and insistent and unyielding, and it’s quite some time before you break apart again.

“It was one of my terms, after all,” he murmurs into your ear. “For everyone to know that you’re mine.”

* * *

“Let me drive you to the reception.”

“No.”

You’re walking around your apartment watering your plants, and Seto is following you. There’s nowhere to escape, really, seeing as it’s just one room. He’s aware of it. You’re aware of it. You try to pretend he’s not half a step behind you anyways.

“I’m driving you.”

“No.”

You stand on tiptoes to try and get to one of your hanging spider plants. Seto snakes an arm around your waist, mostly to restrain you, and relieves you of the watering can, reaching the plant with no trouble at all.

“Yes.” He keeps his arm firmly clasped, even as you try to wiggle out of his grasp and get your watering can back.

“Seto. I already explained this to you. I’m trying to build good relationships with my co-workers, so I need to-”

“Be trapped in a car with both Fukuda and Arima on the way to the venue?”

You sigh. “And Abe and Yoshioka, both of whom are perfectly lovely and will act as a buffer.” You look up at him, noting his displeased expression. “What is your thing about driving me places, anyways?”

“What is _your_ thing about never letting me do anything for you?”

You struggle to get out of his grip. He holds the watering can high up enough that you can’t get to it. “Eh? What are you talking about? You do lots of things for me. You make me smoothies all the time - you built me an entire practice room -”

“You _never_ ask me for anything, and when I try to do something for you, you’re constantly putting up a fight about it,” Seto interrupts. “Look at you. Even now, you’re trying to escape. I’m just trying to water a fucking plant that you can’t reach.”

You stop struggling and frown up at him. “Hey. What’s wrong?” You’d thought that the two of you were doing your usual good-natured arguing, but he actually looks sort of upset.

“Answer my question,” he says.

“Well...we’re pretty alike, aren’t we?” you venture, trying to ease the inexplicable tension. “I think you know that. It’s not like you’re comfortable with people taking care of you, either.”

Seto gazes back at you for a moment, the agitation on his face giving way to intense scrutiny. It makes you feel a little uneasy. “I get that,” you continue, feeling like you’re rambling. “I know you, um, you had to step up and act as Mokuba’s parent when you were just a kid yourself-”

“Why are we talking about me right now?” Seto says evenly.

“Because I know you can see it from my perspective if you try,” you say, a little more sharply than you’d meant to.

“No, I can’t, in fact,” Seto says, still with that look of intense scrutiny. “Because I _still_ don’t know anything about you from before we met. Don’t you think it’s a little unfair that I can’t just find information about you online, like you can do with me?”

You swallow. Your throat suddenly feels dry. “You can ask me whatever you want to know.”

Seto puts the watering can down on your shelf, and moves his free hand to rest just under your collarbone. You know that he can feel your heart pounding. “Do you not want to talk about this?” he says. His tone carries no sympathy.

You don’t, but you don’t feel like you can say no, so you say nothing and just shrug instead.

“You mentioned your parents, before. Tell me about them.”

You hate this, you don’t want to talk about it, and you can’t think of a good reason not to.

“Um,” you say uneasily. “My dad was never really in the picture. It was just me and my mom for a long time. She got married, I moved out.”

“Were those two things correlated?”

You shrug again.

“You said that your mother wasn’t the affectionate type. What did you mean by that?” Seto’s tone is still very...flat. It’s weird, and disconcerting, and his arm around you doesn’t feel like an embrace anymore; it feels like a vice.

“She just...” you trail off. You don’t know how to explain it, because you barely understand it yourself. “It was fine. Mom always kept a roof over my head. She just wasn’t very interested in having a kid. I didn’t see her much, and when she got married I kind of felt like I’d overstayed my welcome, so I left.” You feel shitty, and deeply uncomfortable, and like you want the earth to open up and just swallow you whole. “It’s...it’s nothing bad, really. Nothing like what you went through.”

Seto releases you abruptly. “What do you know about what I went through?” he says, rather coldly.

“Not much,” you admit, stepping away from him and crossing your arms tightly. “I just...I just meant that your parents are gone, right? So...”

“So are yours,” he snaps, his voice rising suddenly in volume. “Unless you’ve been in touch with your stepfather this entire time without mentioning it, which I wouldn’t put past you, to be frank.”

You flinch, before you can stop yourself, and tears well up in your eyes unbidden. “What the fuck is all of this?” you say, fighting to keep your tone steady. “Why are you getting so upset?”

“You’re my girlfriend,” Seto retorts sharply. “Shouldn’t we be able to talk about these things without me having to interrogate you for scraps of information?”

“I don’t understand where this is coming from,” you say, feeling your fists clench at your sides. “You can’t just - you can’t just spring things like this on-”

“Fine,” Seto cuts you off. “Shall we schedule a time to talk about it, then? Or are you just going to find a reason to skip out?”

You can’t help it - the tears finally spill over. You feel humiliated.

Seto’s cold expression cracks, just a little. “Wait,” he says, taking a step towards you. “I didn’t...”

“Please leave,” you choke out, your nails digging into your palms. “Right now.”

Seto looks at you for a long moment, searching your face; whatever he finds there convinces him to leave without another word. As soon as the door shuts behind him you sink down and rest your forehead on your knees.

You feel hurt, and angry, and utterly blindsided; but at the same time you’re not, because you understand that this is the crack that had formed between the two of you, weeks ago, and all this time it’s been widening into a fissure while you both steadily looked the other way.

* * *

You’re wedged into the middle-back seat of Arima’s car with Abe’s cello serving as an unwanted seatmate that’s blocking your view of nearly everything, but that suits you just fine.

“Fukuda-kun,” Arima is saying, “do remember to have a chat with Ono-san, I hear from the fundraising staff that he was asking after you the other day...”

You try to tune it all out. You don’t want to be at this reception, you just want to be at home with your cat, you feel like you couldn’t care less right now about the goddamned donors; _especially_ not your jerk of a boyfriend, who is apparently still attending despite the fact that you haven’t spoken in two days.

“Hey,” Yoshioka pipes up from the seat beside you. “Saito-san is going to be in town for this one, I hear?”

“Yes,” Arima replies.

“You’ve briefed her on Saito-san, right?” Yoshioka says, gesturing to you.

“Of course I have,” Arima laughs. “Her first week here.”

 _That_ gets your attention. You’ve never spoken with Arima about Saito. Yoshioka catches the surprise on your face. “You sure?” he says, glancing at you.

“Oh, I see,” Arima says, not taking his eyes off the road. “Your first month here was quite hectic, wasn’t it? I completely understand if you’ve forgotten. Do you know who Saito Kazue is?”

“Yes,” you say, trying your best not to sound irritated. Of course you know who Saito Kazue is - she’s the donor who endowed your chair. In every single concert program it lists your name, followed by: _Assistant Concertmaster, Saito Kazue Chair._ You just didn’t know that there was anything for you to be briefed on. Saito lives in Hokkaido with her husband following their retirement and doesn’t seem to have any interest in attending donor events; you’ve never seen her, at any rate.

“Right,” Arima continues. “So when your predecessor announced her departure rather abruptly, Saito-san was of course concerned about what this meant for her endowment.”

You catch a glimpse of Fukuda’s face in the rearview mirror, and even you can pick up the storm of anger that flashes across his eyes.

“Which is why they rushed auditions,” Abe pipes up. “Fujimori-san wanted someone in that chair as soon as possible.”

“ _Rushed_ is perhaps not the right word,” Arima says, in that gentle, correcting tone that somehow seems to have everyone in the car feeling chastened. “I’m a little surprised you don’t remember our conversation, though,” he addresses you. “The prospect of there being too much turnover in the assistant concertmaster position was a point of contention with Saito-san, and your temporary contract was a compromise. There were a lot of parties invested in the outcome of your audition.”

Your head is spinning. You have absolutely _no_ recollection of this conversation. Were you really that out of it in the fall? “Oh,” you say, as lightly as you can, “yes, I think that rings a bell.”

“Don’t be nervous,” Arima says, his tone reassuring. “Saito-san is _very_ pleased by what she’s heard about you. You have nothing to worry about.”

Except you do, because you almost walked into meeting your benefactor completely blind without any briefing, and you genuinely don’t know if that’s your fault or not.

As you all walk up the venue steps together, Abe peeks over at you with a mischievous expression. “Is it true?” she says. “About you and Kaiba Seto?”

You flush; partly because you’re spectacularly unprepared for the question, and partly because you’re not entirely sure where you stand with him right now. “Yes,” you reply, trying to sound more confident than you can feel, “and Fukuda-kun was the one who introduced us, actually.”

Fukuda glances over his shoulder at you with a murderous look on his face. You smile back. So sue you, you couldn’t resist a potshot.

“Wow,” Abe breathes. “ _Lucky._ He’s gorgeous, ne?”

“Tell me about it,” Yoshioka sighs dreamily in mockery, clasping his hands in front of his heart. “He’s the most beautiful man alive. After Arima-san, of course.”

You can’t help but join your colleagues in laughter as you all enter step through the glass doors.

The most beautiful man alive is currently engaged in conversation with a cluster of donors and looks like he’d rather be pretty much anywhere else, if the expression on his face is any indication. Unfortunately, even though you’re still upset with him, you have to admit that he’s living up to the title. Tonight his tux is a pinstriped slate-grey with a grey-blue pocket square that accents his striking colouring - pale skin, deep brown hair, and of course those eyes - piercing azure framed by dark lashes. You’re kind of surprised to see him wearing the pocket square. Honda had suggested it to match your bluish-grey silk column dress, in a subtle show of unity, and Seto had only rolled his eyes at the time and hadn’t acquiesced one way or the other.

Standing by his brother’s side, offsetting his cool, remote aesthetic, is Mokuba; who is decked out in a stunningly eye-catching tux with a jacket of granite-coloured paisley. He has his hair pulled into a loose topknot at the back of his head and his burgundy bowtie brings out all of the warmth and vivacity of his colouring, from his tanned skin to his enormous grey eyes. You realize this is the first time you’ve seen them together at a formal event, and seeing it in action, it becomes very clear to you why they almost always attend things together; when Mokuba is around, Seto’s aloof demeanour seems more reserved than haughty, and Mokuba’s energy is lent more credibility and gravitas with his brother looming behind him.

“Shall I introduce you to Saito-san?” Arima says to you, offering his arm.

“I’ll take her,” Fukuda pipes up instead. “Saito-san’s over there with Ono-san, so we might as well go together.”

Arima doesn’t _frown_ , exactly, but he gives the two of you a thoughtful look. “All right,” he says. “Yoshioka-kun and Abe-kun and I will take the other side of the room.”

Fukuda offers you his arm instead, and though the gesture comes across as sarcastic, you take it with a pleasant smile. He herds you rather roughly towards a group of donors.

Your first meeting with Saito goes well, you think. She’s an exceedingly tiny old woman dressed in an elegant kimono and shawl who gives off a formidable aura; though her husband has a good few inches on her, Saito Kazue comes across as the larger figure. She asks you questions about your musical background, switching rapid-fire between English and Japanese, as if she’s trying to keep you on your toes. You keep up as best you can. When she grills you about your temporary contract and the audition process you’re thankfully prepared and are able to answer to all of her concerns. Finally she raises one well-manicured eyebrow and says: “Well. You’ll do, then, won’t you?”

There’s a mischievous twinkle in her eyes offsetting the dismissiveness of her words, and you can’t help but smile back as you offer a deep bow.

“Good job,” Fukuda deadpans as he leads you away towards another cluster of donors. “I guess you can make it ten minutes without fucking up after all.”

You smile at him, as bright and fake as you can muster. “I don’t know what I’d do without your support and guidance. You’re such a comfort to me.”

“Wow. Stupid _and_ sarcastic. What a combination.” Fukuda lets out a loud, phony laugh, as if you’ve just told the funniest joke ever.

You laugh too, covering your mouth daintly with your hand. “Asswipe,” you cough.

Fukuda grins. “Oh, will you look at that. Apparently your boyfriend still hates me.”

Seto is indeed watching the two of you approach with a slightly more unpleasant scowl than usual. You know that this is probably because he’s not particularly pleased to see you, but you’re happy to pin the blame on Fukuda. “He’s a good judge of character,” you say, plastering on your talking-to-donors smile.

Mokuba, at least, is excited to see you; he chatters enthusiastically with both you and Fukuda while his brother continues to glower silently. You quirk a tiny raise of your eyebrow at Seto, trying to ask him what his problem is; he avoids your eyes.

“Fukuda-kun,” Arima says from behind the two of you. “Did you get a chance to say hello to Watanabe-sensei? He was looking for you earlier.”

Fukuda understands that this is a dismissal, and lets go of your arm, shooting you a saucy wink as he takes off into the crowd. You know that Arima is probably nervous about having Fukuda interact with Seto any more than necessary, a perception that is more than likely helped along by Seto’s current facial expression.

“It’s nice to see you again, Kaiba-san,” Arima says to Seto, as Mokuba and Abe begin a spirited conversation next to you. As he draws up next to you, his hand raises, as if he’s going to put it on your back or shoulder again.

Seto steps in swiftly, placing a hand on your waist and tugging you towards him. “Indeed,” he says curtly.

“Arima-san,” Abe interjects, saving him from the sudden onset of a thick, tense atmosphere. “Have you met Mokuba-san yet?” Arima willingly allows himself to be drawn into their conversation, apparently realizing that Seto is a lost cause for the moment.

“Hi,” you say awkwardly to Seto. This is your first time speaking to him since your fight.

“Hello,” Seto says frostily, although his hand remains possessively on your waist. “Enjoying the reception?”

You look around furtively to make sure no one’s listening. “No,” you confess. “Not really.”

“Is that so?” Seto replies, raising an eyebrow. “It certainly looked like you and Fukuda were having a good time. Patched things up, have you?”

You stare at him, nonplussed. “What? No. That guy is my mortal enemy. I’m just biding my time until I can kill him discreetly.”

Seto examines you for a moment, and the corner of his lip twitches, ever so slightly.

You smile at him tentatively. “Don’t worry,” you say. “You’re still my favourite jerk.”

That gets a hint of a smile out of him. He leans down towards you. “There had better not be any competition for that title,” he murmurs into your ear.

* * *

The odds have been utterly stacked against you for this performance: Fukuda is pinch-hitting on viola due to the second violist falling sick just days before the event and you’ve only had one rehearsal with him, which devolved into an argument of him calling you an “insufferable baroque purist” and you informing him that you were going to break his stupid viola over his head.

Against said odds, the performance actually goes exceedingly well. Despite being a total asshole in rehearsal, Fukuda treats Boccherini’s _String Quintet No. 3 in B Minor_ with the gravity it deserves, and does quite well on the viola. As always you love the opportunity to play with Abe and Yoshioka, and Arima mostly behaves himself and blends with the ensemble, with only a few moments of unwarranted showmanship.

As you’re all packing up your instruments, Arima departs to retrieve his car; the valet is for donors only, and he’s had to park in an outdoor lot about a block away. Fukuda watches him leave, and as soon as the door clicks shut behind him, he exchanges a significant glance with Abe and Yoshioka.

“We need to talk,” Yoshioka says to you.

You blink. “About what? Look, I’m really sorry about the entrance in measure 23-”

“No, not that, idiot,” Fukuda says impatiently. “Look. Arima didn’t brief you on Saito-san. You weren’t imagining it.”

“What?” There’s a part of you that had known that, but you’re still surprised. “Why would he do that?”

“This is what he does,” Yoshioka says, his voice hushed, as if he’s expecting Arima to pop back in the door any second. “He’s playing a game with you. You have to be careful.”

“Arima’s a fucking liar,” Fukuda continues. “You can’t trust a single thing-”

“Okay,” you cut in. “Excuse me if I don’t believe you, Fukuda, because you’ve _also_ lied to me, and it really cost me.”

“What?” Fukuda snaps. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Come on,” you retort. “Don’t play stupid. The Faust thing.”

Fukuda looks genuinely surprised, in a way that unnerves you. “What Faust thing?”

“You’re unbelievable,” you say hotly. “You lied to my face and told me that Faust-san wasn’t going out with the section after the Sibelius concert. Do you even know how much shit I got in for skipping that? Apparently Fujimori-san was _pissed_ , and...”

You trail off. Fukuda, Yoshioka and Abe are all looking at you with open shock.

“Faust-san didn’t come out with us,” Abe says hesitantly. “Hasegawa-kun invited me along. I was there.”

You stare, feeling your stomach drop. “But...Arima said...he said that Faust-san had gone out with everyone, and that Fujimori-san was really upset that I hadn’t joined in, because Faust-san had remarked on my playing, and...there was a disciplinary meeting...”

“Faust did compliment you,” Fukuda says grudgingly. “I heard her say it. But she didn’t come out with us after. I highly doubt there was a disciplinary report filed.”

“But...” You look at each of them in turn, stunned.

Abe puts a hand on your arm and squeezes gently. “Arima-san...” she looks towards the door nervously. “Likes it when people depend on him,” she continues hesitantly. “Sometimes when he feels someone in the violin section is getting too independent he’ll try and bring them back down.”

“That’s the understatement of the fucking century,” Fukuda says hotly to Abe. “Look. We can’t keep this under wraps for any longer. We have to tell her what he did to-”

The door opens at that point, and Arima steps through. “Sorry for the wait,” he says pleasantly. “Will you all be carpooling with me on the way home, or...”

“I have a ride,” you pipe up, trying to sound normal. “Thanks for the offer, though.”

Arima’s smile never falters, but he does cast a significant glance at all four of you. Abe drops her hand from your arm. “Yes, I’ll go with you, Arima-san,” she says. “Thank you.”

Your head is spinning again as you make your way back towards the donors. All you can really think is: _What the fuck. What the fuck. What the_ fuck.

As you approach Seto and Mokuba, you take a deep breath; you’ll have plenty of time to turn it all around in your mind later, but for now you have something more important to focus on. You draw up beside Seto and hesitantly loop your arm through his.

Taken aback, he glances down at you. “I thought you were leaving.”

“Mm...” you flush and glance down at your shoes. “I was wondering if...if you could maybe give me a ride home? Please.”

You’re struck with a sudden terror that he’s going to say, _no, that’s too much trouble_ , or _why would you even ask me that,_ or _I already do so much for you_ \- but then you realize with abrupt clarity that it’s not his voice in your head saying that. It’s your mom’s.

So you raise your head, and meet his eyes; and he’s smiling.

“Yes,” he says, leaning down to press a kiss to your hair. “Of course I will.”

* * *

“Drop me off at the penthouse, okay?” Mokuba says.

“Hm?” Seto says absently, as he deigns to use his blinker for once in his life and pulls off a lane change that is maybe a tad aggressive for a residential street. “What do you mean, drop you off?”

“I mean,” Mokuba says patiently, “that I’m going there, and you’re going to nee-san’s apartment, so the two of you can sort out your shit.”

Seto turns to look at him. “Excuse me?”

“I know you heard me,” Mokuba says, clapping his brother on the shoulder. “Focus on the road, nii-sama.”

You apparently don’t get any say in the matter, so you just lean your head against the window and try to let your brain rattle through all the things it needs to rattle through before you and Seto have to have what will undoubtedly be an awkward and unpleasant conversation. Seto drops Mokuba off at the penthouse as requested, and while he doesn’t attempt to make conversation on the drive to your apartment, he does reach over and hold your hand in one of his while keeping the other on the steering wheel.

Seto walks you all the way to your door, and then pauses. “May I come in?” he says.

It takes your brain a full thirty seconds to register that. Your boyfriend, Kaiba Seto, actually asking if he can come in instead of barging in and messing with your stuff and teasing your cat before you can even get your shoes off. “Yeah,” you manage. “Yes. Of course you can.”

Egg opens an eye lazily as the two of you come in, watching from his spot on top of the refrigerator as Seto removes his suit jacket and hangs it by the door. “Are you gonna come say hi?” you ask him in Japanese. He stares at you. You repeat the question in English. He tucks his head under his little paw and goes back to sleep. Seto, who can actually reach him while he’s up there, stops to greet him nonetheless as you kick your high heels off.

“Want some tea?” you ask, trying desperately not to sound awkward.

“We should talk,” Seto answers. “Do you need tea for that?”

You think about that for a moment. Yes, kind of, but you also just want to get it all over with. “No,” you decide.

Seto nods, then crosses the room and sits gingerly on your bed, patting the spot next to him. You hesitate for a moment and then follow him.

“Seto,” you start, “I’m sor-”

He cuts you off by raising a hand. “No, don’t apologize,” he says. “Just...come here.” Seto moves to sit against your headboard and pulls you into his arms, so that your back is resting against his chest, with his legs on either side of yours. You can’t help but melt into the embrace, into his soap-and-cologne scent, the one that centers you like nothing else.

Seto gently tugs you back until your head is resting against his shoulder, lets out a sigh, and then just holds you for a long moment.

“I remember my mother being very kind,” he says, after a stretch of silence. “My father always said that Mokuba had her temperament. I don’t have many memories of her, but they’re all...very pleasant.”

You take one of his hands in yours, lacing your fingers together.

“She passed away giving birth to Mokuba,” Seto continues. “After that our father was quite different. I don’t think he ever really recovered. He only lived for a couple years after that, and then he was killed in an accident. I remember...I remember missing him, a lot, but also being angry that he’d abandoned us.”

You understand what he’s doing. He’s telling you things from before he and Mokuba were adopted by Gozaburo Kaiba, before the famous chess match and the board takeover and Gozaburo’s dramatic death - he’s telling you the things that the media deems insignificant, and never bothers to mention in their articles.

“Do you still miss them?” you ask, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

“No,” Seto says honestly. “Sometimes I wish I did.”

For some reason, his tone - a little wistful, but mostly just matter-of-fact - brings a lump to your throat. He grips your shoulder with his free hand, making gentle circles there with his thumb.

“I’m not telling you this so that you’ll share something with me in turn,” he murmurs into your ear. “I just want you to know.”

You know that already - you can tell that this is a purely unselfish expression of trust, and you want nothing more than to return it.

“My mom was, um, gone a lot,” you venture, trying to keep your voice steady. “She’d just leave for days at a time, starting when I was really small. Sometimes she’d leave stuff in the fridge and sometimes she’d forget. But...” the lump in your throat grows, and you take a shaky breath. “It wasn’t all bad, you know? Mom was really funny sometimes, and she liked to play games together. We had a lot of good times. She just...had me really young, and she was still kind of a kid herself. We got along better when I didn’t ask a lot of her.”

“You loved her,” Seto says.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice breaking. “It feels so weird to say that, but I did. I do. Her husband...no one even told me when she died. I’d moved out long ago and we hadn’t spoken in years. I found out from one of her friends a year after her death. I didn’t...I didn’t even know she was sick.”

Seto tightens his grip on you, and presses a kiss to your temple. “Do you miss her?”

“I wish I didn’t,” you say, and it comes out as a sob, and Seto wraps both arms around you and pulls you in close and you cry into his chest. You cry because you miss her, because despite everything you still love her, because she’d died in a hospital somewhere without knowing those things - you’d never told her. You cry because you’ll never be able to ask her if she loved you too.

Most of all, you cry because you know that even though the circumstances were different, Seto understands more than anyone how it feels. You know without asking that he understands how it feels to be small and lonely and confused, but to realize that you have to be the one to make your own peanut butter sandwiches, or to brush the tangles out of your little brother’s hair, or make sure the utility bill gets paid; because it’s up to you now and it isn’t fair but fair just doesn’t exist for everyone.

You can’t tell if he’s crying too but he does take a long, shuddering breath and you think maybe you can feel a little dampness at the point where his cheek is resting on top of your head.

After a while Seto turns you around and cups your face in his hands so that he can kiss away the last of the tears clinging to your cheeks and eyelashes; and you press kisses in turn to the palms of his hands and the point where his jaw meets his earlobe and the hollow just under his cheekbone; and then your lips meet and it’s impossibly heartbreakingly gentle but there’s also a desperate heat behind it, a need for connection and reconciliation. As the kiss deepens your hands drift towards the buttons of his shirt and he slides the strap of your dress off your shoulder.

“Are you sure you want this?” he asks, holding the side of your face in his hand and brushing his thumb across your cheek.

“I trust you,” you say. “More than anything.”

He leans forward and kisses you with so much tenderness that it makes you feel, for the first time in your life, like the things that you’ve been running from just can’t reach you anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys. This chapter was like, _excruciatingly_ hard to write, but I ended up really liking it and being happy with the result. I hope you all like it too <3
> 
> If anyone's confused about Seto being hella weird and interrogating the reader: He wants them to have an open and honest conversation but doesn't really understand how to get that dialogue going in a healthy way, so he tries to force it, and just ends up upsetting the hell out of both of them. The second time he tries is much healthier and more successful because he understands that he _also_ has to show vulnerability - it can't be a one-way thing. Reader's growing up a little here too: She's finally starting to get that "acts of service" - aka doing concrete things for the people in your life - is Seto's big love language. So, she's trying to get over to her ingrained aversion to accepting any form of help for his sake, because that's how he communicates.
> 
>  **Music mentioned in this chapter:**  
> [Boccherini - String Quintet No. 3 in B Minor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QhQbDCuEDtI) \- Y'all. The STRUGGLE of wanting to have a very specific mix of characters in a chapter and then having to find a piece with the right combo of instruments to fit them all, LOLOL. Hence why Fukuda was chucked on viola for this one. In case you're wondering, it's not uncommon per se for violinists and violists to have some skills in both instruments - a lot of the technique is the same, even though the notes are different.   
> [Bruckner - Symphony No. 8](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qDkj1t5wF1U) \- Ah, Bruckner...you either love him or you really, really, REALLY don't.
> 
>  **Orchestral terms & tidbits:**  
> 1\. An _endowed chair_ is essentially when a musician's salary is paid by an endowment fund established by a major donor. In return, that position is named after the donor. Usually donors either want to endow prestigious positions (Concertmaster, section principals, etc) or specific musicians that they like. In this case you can infer that Saito-san quite liked the previous assistant concertmaster, and was threatening to discontinue her endowment when that person left the orchestra - so the pressure was on for Fujimori to find someone else that Saito-san would like enough to continue her endowment!
> 
> Oh my god, I'm sorry, that author's note was a fucking novel ⚆_⚆ I hope you're all having a good week, wonderful pals! I'm really, really excited to hear what you thought about this chapter <3


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys...it's gonna be 21 chapters. I'm so sorry, I'm a dumbass and can't outline worth crap, lol.

“What’s this?” Seto says, leaning over your shoulder and glaring at your phone. “What are you doing?”

In retrospect, you should have foreseen how spectacularly this would backfire on you.

“Come on,” you chide. “Don’t be obtuse. You know what Instagram is.”

“Yes, I do,” Seto says grumpily. “I just wasn’t aware you used it.”

You kiss him on the cheek and tilt your screen towards him. “Yeah. I just post Egg pictures and videos of bike rides and stuff. Violin things, too. I didn’t log on often before, but lately...” you shrug, feeling a little embarrassed. “I, um, thought it might be nice to catch up with some of my friends from places I used to live, and they all use Instagram a lot, so...”

“Hm,” Seto says, although his tone has softened. He reaches over and scrolls through the comments on your most recent picture of Egg. You’d gotten a surprising number of feedback, mostly from people you haven’t seen in years; things like _Egg! Little buddy, I missed you!!_ and _How are you two doing these days, it’s been a long time_ and _DM me girl, I want to hear all about Japan!_

And then, of course, there are comments from your friends here: _So cute, when can I come see him_ from Anzu, _Love that face_ ❤ from Yuugi and simply _☆EGG☆SAMA☆_ from Honda.

“Why are _they_ commenting?” Seto asks. “They see you all the time. Can’t they just tell you in person what they think about your picture?”

You’re not entirely sure how to explain social media to the most antisocial person you know, but you might as well give it a shot. “It’s just nice to share little bits of your life and have people acknowledge them,” you say. “I mean, you text me during the day, don’t you? Even though you’ll see me in person later. It’s the same thing but on a broader scale.”

“I don’t get it,” Seto says, frowning at your phone screen like it’s personally offended him. “What does Yuugi post on his?”

You obligingly navigate to Yuugi’s page. It’s frankly adorable to you that Yuugi forms such a large part of Seto’s frame of reference for socializing, even though Seto himself would probably rather die than admit it. Yuugi has posted a few things recently; a freshly-opened booster pack of Duel Monsters cards, a screen-recorded video of him beating his own time in the new KaibaCorp racing game title, a picture of Anzu smiling across from him in a restaurant booth and showing off a massive plate of okonomiyaki. There’s even a ridiculously adorable selfie with Jounouchi, in which Jounouchi is giving the camera a thumbs up and grinning from ear to ear while Yuugi makes a peace sign and plants a kiss on his cheek. (You had commented on that one; just some incoherent keysmashing and a giant stack of heart-eyes emojis.)

Seto grunts. “Why does the one with Jounouchi have so many more likes than the Duel Monsters picture? Ridiculous. As if we all don’t see enough of that nonsense in person.”

You figure that’s that, and Seto can go back to being a grouchy old man yelling at social-media clouds while you carry on posting cat pictures.

That night, you decide to record yourself playing Telemann’s _Fantasia for Solo Violin in A minor._ You’ve been playing a lot more baroque music lately in your downtime; your tastes tend more towards the romantic, but Seto always gets this really focused look on his face when you play him baroque repertoire and it’s cute as hell, so sue you. You’re finding it really fun to share your downtime pieces on Instagram. Musician friends from all over the world post insightful little comments on articulation and phrasing, and you love going to their pages and seeing what they’re working on lately, too.

The comments start to roll in after a few minutes. Your cellist friend Anders from New York says: _No vibrato. Bold choice,_ to which a violist from Montreal replies: _That’s baroque, baby._ Then a couple of non-musician friends chime in, and then...

You blink and reload the notification tab. Did you see that right?

_kaibaseto liked this._

_kaibaseto commented: 👍_

_kaibaseto is now following you._

Yes, you did see that. Your boyfriend, deigning to use an emoji, possibly for the first time in his life. You click through to Seto’s Instagram page. He is verified (of course), he has three _million_ followers, and he has posted only one thing: two years ago, a promotional photograph of the latest Solid Vision update. It’s admittedly quite cool - Mokuba standing next to a stunningly lifelike hologram of the Blue-Eyes White Dragon - and it has over one million likes.

You start laughing, but you’re also deeply touched. Whatever Seto’s thoughts are about the uselessness of social media, he’s willing to debase himself with a thumbs-up emoji for your sake. You reply to his comment with a heart emoji, and then you go to bed.

You wake up the next morning to one-hundred thousand new followers.

* * *

“You two want to explain this?”

You’ve been summoned to Mokuba’s office at Kaiba Corporation for an early-morning emergency conference consisting of yourself, Seto, Mokuba, and Seto’s publicist - a harried, long-suffering woman named Serizawa Saki.

Mokuba is not impressed. He’s leaning back in his chair, arms folded, brows drawn tightly into a glower, and he’s placed his phone in the centre of the desk where all of you can see it. Your Instagram post is up on the screen. You resist the urge to comment on how strikingly similar he looks to his brother right now and instead continue to hang your head in apology.

“Explain what?” Seto says, sounding supremely unconcerned. His publicist, on the other hand, looks like she may be in the early stages of a heart attack.

“Shachou,” Serizawa says, pulling out her tablet and waking up the screen. “It appears that your use of social media has invited some speculation-”

“Hn. How? She only has two hundred followers.” Seto still looks like he doesn’t exactly understand why he’s here, and like he’s immensely annoyed at everyone in the room for wasting his time.

“Um, more like two hundred _thousand_ at the moment,” you say, covering your face with your hands. “I went private, but...”

“But the damage was done,” Mokuba says, “because you two _idiots_ couldn’t just stop and think for two seconds-”

Serizawa gingerly places her tablet in the centre of the desk, next to Mokuba’s phone, and starts swiping through articles _. Japan’s most eligible bachelor off the market at last?_ reads one. Another bears your name, appended with: _What We Know About Kaiba Seto’s Mystery Girl._

You snatch the tablet and scroll frantically through that one. Luckily, since you’ve never been big on social media, most of What They Know can be boiled down to your previous Instagram posts: you have a cat, you play the violin, you like biking, you moved here from abroad.

“For god’s sake, nii-sama,” Mokuba is still ranting. “If you wanted to flirt with your girlfriend over social media instead of just, you know, in person, you could’ve at _least_ been smart enough to make a finsta-”

“A what?” you and Seto chime in unison.

Mokuba props his elbows on the table and buries his face into his hands. He lets out a long, aggravated sigh, bordering on a silent scream, and then lifts his head to glare at his brother. “Let me break it down for you, nii-sama. You have _three million_ _followers_ , and you are following two people: me, and nee-san. Your _three million followers_ probably thought, gee, I wonder who makes up the other _half_ of the people Kaiba Seto is following on Instagram? So they go to nee-san’s page, and what do they see?”

“Telemann,” Seto says, shrugging.

“You, making literally your _first ever Instagram comment_ -” Mokuba turns the full force of his wrath to you, “and _you_ , reacting with a _heart emoji_.”

You look down at your lap, thoroughly chastened.

“Quite a few outlets are asking us to comment,” Serizawa chimes in, seeming unfazed by the sight of Mokuba lambasting his older brother, “and we do have some pre-prepared responses, but...they’ll need a little re-working.”

“Hn,” Seto says again, folding his arms. “Why? Just tell them she’s my girlfriend. How much more simple can it be?”

“The responses we had prepared were mainly working under the assumption that the two of you might be spotted together in person, perhaps a picture published without your consent,” Serizawa explains patiently. “So those responses include a request for your privacy. However, in this case...”

“Because you literally brought this on yourself, everyone’s assuming you did it on purpose to either announce or ramp up speculation about the relationship,” Mokuba cuts in. “No one’s going to believe that the president of one of Japan’s largest tech companies is a massive social media idiot who had no clue what he was doing.”

Seto looks affronted. “It’s hardly my fault that people are extrapolating all sorts of nonsense from a simple comment-”

“And _like_ , and _follow_ -”

In the end, Mokuba sends you to the corner of the office to sit on the couch and think about what you’ve done. Well. Technically you’re supposed to be going through your Instagram follower list and weeding out everyone you don’t know in person, but it still feels like time-out. To avoid further ire you throw yourself into your task while half-heartedly listening to Serizawa and Mokuba’s attempts to throw together a statement over Seto’s unhelpful comments.

More articles flood in.

_Kaiba Seto breaks two-year social media silence: Is she The One?_

_Exclusive: Kaiba Corporation CEO’s new love has ties with pro-Duelists Mutou Yuugi and Jounouchi Katsuya_

“Ugh,” you mutter.

“Write in your statement that they can’t mob her with stupid bullshit on her personal social media account-”

“Yeah, no, you two gave up _that_ privilege when you-”

“Shachou, I think if we phrase it this way-”

“ _Ugh_ ,” you repeat, deleting a few comments on a picture of your bike from some of Seto’s fans that you hadn’t managed to clear from your follower’s list yet. One of them stings a little: _wow dude’s a billionaire and his gf is rollin on these wheels lmao_. You’re glad Seto hasn’t seen any comments like this yet - you’re sure he wouldn’t be able to resist wading into the fray.

By the end of the morning, Serizawa and Mokuba have fired off statements to the press and crafted a strategy. They wrestle Seto’s phone away from him and send him to sit in the shame corner with you as they populate his follow list - mostly tech news accounts, other industry leaders, Duel Monsters celebrities (including Yuugi, Mai, Jounouchi, and that weird harpoon guy Jounouchi had tried to set you up with), and a smattering of personal friends (Anzu, Honda, Bakura, Shizuka, et cetera) so that you stick out less. Mokuba drafts a plan for the next few weeks of Seto’s Instagram posts: behind-the-scenes updates on KaibaCorp tech, books he’s reading, short clips of martial arts practice, et cetera.

“What? Food? Why do I have to post a picture of _food?_ ”

Mokuba sighs wearily. “I’m not going to repeat this again, Seto. We need to make it look like your relationship isn’t a publicity stunt promoting something, so you need to post boring shit until people lose interest.”

“Well, when can I stop posting regularly?” Seto demands. “This is ridiculous.”

“Never,” Mokuba says flatly. “Congratulations. You’re a social media user now. Stop complaining, we can just hand over your account access to the PR department and they’ll do it all for you.”

“Um, Mokuba,” you pipe up hesitantly. “I’m texting with the Minato Philharmonic’s publicist, and he’s wondering if it would be OK for me to link the orchestra’s account in my bio, so that anyone who clicks to my page can see it?”

Mokuba thinks about that for a moment. “Yeah, go ahead,” he decides. “It’s a non-profit, so it doesn’t look shitty for you to give their publicity a little boost.”

You diligently add it to your bio, and shortly afterwards receive an effusive text message of thanks from Minato Philharmonic’s publicist.

A knock sounds on the door, and then Yuugi’s unmistakable spiky, colourful head pops in. “There you all are!” he says cheerfully.

Mokuba waves half-heartedly. “Yuugi, we’re kinda busy-”

“I know,” Yuugi says, popping into the room with a smile and shutting the door behind him. “PR summit, anyone who disturbs you will be summarily executed, et cetera. Your secretary is scary, Mokuba-kun.”

“That’s why I hired him,” Mokuba mutters. “Not scary enough to keep _you_ out, apparently.”

“No one can keep me out!” Yuugi laughs. “Anyways, I have an idea. Why don’t Kaiba-kun and I post a selfie together with a prototype of the new twelve-core processor we’re working on?”

“The KC Velox 8700,” Mokuba says thoughtfully. “I mean, I guess we did officially announce it last month...you know what? I think that’s a great idea, actually. A selfie with Yuugi is just about the only thing that could redirect media attention right now. It has to look really unposed, though, it can’t come across as overly promotional-”

In the end, Seto is frog-marched down to the labs by Yuugi and Mokuba, while you stretch out on the couch and finish clearing out the last of your new followers. Once you’re done, you click back over to Seto’s page and refresh.

Apparently getting Seto to smile was a lost cause, but it’s a really cute selfie - Yuugi looks excited enough for both of them, and the backdrop of the KC labs is admittedly very cool.

A text message comes in from Mokuba. _If you hit like on that picture, I am throwing your phone in my industrial shredder._

* * *

_Congratulations on your newfound fame_ ☆ _~~ I’m so happy for you~~_

 _It’s your pal Dai-chan by the way~ Come to my house this Sunday, ne? We can eat cake and talk all about your rich boyfriend~_ (*¯ ³¯*)♡

You stare at your phone with an expression of utter disgust, and contemplate both deleting the texts and spraying your phone with bleach afterwards for good measure.

Seto finishes buttoning his shirt, and then glances over at you. “Come on, it’s almost six-thirty, hurry up - what’s with that face? It looks like you’ve seen a cockroach.”

“I have,” you say, wrinkling your nose. You hand Seto your phone to read the text as you throw the covers off with a vengeance and try to find wherever your jeans had landed last night.

Seto’s face quickly morphs into an expression of disgust to match yours. “Who the hell is Dai-chan?”

“Fukuda Daisuke,” you grit out. “God, that guy makes me feel more inclined towards violence than I’ve ever been in my life.”

Seto starts typing on your phone. You sigh and don’t even make a move to stop him. When he hands it back to you, you see that he’s texted pretty much exactly what you would’ve: _What the fuck do you want, Fukuda?_

Your phone chimes again within two minutes. Seto is dressed by this point and looks impeccable as usual. You can’t find your bra. Where the hell is your bra?

“Looking for this?” Seto smirks, tossing it gently at you. You scowl at him and wrestle it on, then check your texts.

 _So mean~_ (˚ ˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ ) _I really thought you’d want to come to my house and find out what happened to the girl who was in your chair before~ Hasegawa-chan and Yoshioka-chan and Abe-chan will be there too, don’t miss our little tea party_ (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡

“I think those emojis are literally dealing me psychological damage,” you groan, rubbing your face. “Is he doing that just to hurt me?”

“We could put out a hit on him,” Seto says casually, leaning down to kiss your cheek as you finish dressing. “Now let’s go, or we won’t have time for breakfast.”

You actually have no idea if he’s joking or not, and you wouldn’t put it past him to have connections like that. You decide not to ask.

“So are you going?” Seto says once you’re at the cafe, sharing a plate of crepes.

“I don’t know,” you sigh. “I mean, I really want to know, but...it’s Fukuda. Maybe he’s just lying or fucking with me or something.”

“He’s actually never lied to you,” Seto points out. “Arima’s the only one who’s lied, this entire time.”

You think about that, chewing a bite of crepe. “Ugh,” you say finally, “but Fukuda’s such an _asshole_.”

Seto smirks at you, then takes your hand and presses a kiss to your fingers. “You’re good at dealing with assholes. You’re dating me, aren’t you?”

That gets a laugh out of you, and you send Fukuda a text reading just _Give me the time and address._

* * *

“Kinda expected you to show up in an Audi,” Jounouchi teases, elbowing you in the ribs. “You know, now that you’ve married rich and all.”

“Oh my god, don’t even _joke_ about that,” you groan, as you lock your bike up beside his outside the coffee shop. “Seto keeps asking if I want Isono to drop me off at work. Isono! As if Seto and Mokuba don’t put that poor guy through enough shit already.”

“You don’t know the _half_ of it,” Jounouchi guffaws. “Isono’s a saint, man. A _saint_.”

“Can you imagine, though?” you say with a giggle, as the two of you head inside to start your opening shift. “Showing up for a minimum-wage retail shift in a chauffeured Mercedes.”

“What does ol’ moneybags think about you still working here, anyways?” Jounouchi asks. “Now that you’ve got a fancy salaried job.” He turns you around and ties the back of your apron for you without asking. Jounouchi is _such_ a big brother - you really love that about him.

“He’s fine with it,” you say, and then shrug. “But I don’t think he really gets it. I’ve tried to explain it to him, but...”

“I know,” Jounouchi laughs. “Yuugi gives me shit for working here too. He figures we both make enough from pro-Dueling alone to be able to kick back and relax a bit. You know what - lately I’m startin’ to think he might be right.”

“What? Really?”

Jounouchi shrugs. “Yeah. I mean, I know the poor-kid mentality is strong. But we gotta grow out of it sometime, don’t we? We can’t live our whole lives waitin’ for the other shoe to drop.”

“Well, no,” you concede, pulling the flavoured syrups out from the fridge. “But you guys are different. You’ve been dating for years and you live together.”

“Hey, I’m not saying you go full trophy wife on Kaiba,” Jounouchi says, grinning and raising his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I’m just saying that you’ve done a good job of setting yourself up to succeed, and you’ve probably earned a bit of a rest. But,” he puts his arm around you and gives you a tight squeeze, “if we’re talkin’ about Kaiba, I’m just saying, as someone who’s known him since we were kids...that guy’s in it for the long haul. I can tell.”

You flush, and stare down at your shoes, still holding a bottle of syrup. “I think I kind of am too,” you admit.

Jounouchi laughs again and ruffles your hair. “I know, kid. I know.”

* * *

You have to admit, Fukuda’s apartment is surprisingly classy for such an utter fucking douchebag. You feel like you’ve stepped into a Scandinavian design magazine. It’s so different from any Japanese home you’ve been in that it makes you feel a little homesick - the kind of apartment you could’ve walked into in San Francisco or Toronto.

“My humble home has you speechless, huh, foreigner?” Fukuda says from the kitchen, where he’s making tea. “Surprised that other people on orchestral salaries choose to shop outside of thrift stores?”

You gesture at the wall of framed photos of family and friends. “Nah, just surprised that a troll like you managed to convince that many people to pose for photos with you.” You are a little surprised by the photos, but moreso because it’s more sentimentality than you would’ve expected out of Satan incarnate.

“Behave,” Abe scolds from the couch.

“Lost cause, Yuri-kun,” Yoshioka says, leaning back and folding his arms behind his head. “Ne, hurry up with that tea, would you, Fukuda?”

“Anything for you, darling Kou-chan~” Fukuda calls back.

“Thank you, my sweet Dai-chan~”

“Ugh,” Hasegawa mutters, bringing her palm to her forehead. “I’m tired already.”

You sit down next to Hasegawa and take a cup of tea from the tray Fukuda sets on the coffee table. You have to admit, Fukuda makes a pretty good cup of tea. It really annoys you for some reason.

“So when do we start the party games?” Fukuda says, clapping his hands.

“Hey.” Abe elbows him. “Take this seriously, would you?”

“All right,” Yoshioka says, ignoring both of them and turning to face you. “So. I guess you went into this whole thing pretty much blind, didn’t you?”

“Well...” you think it over for a moment. You get the sense that Nakai is not someone you want as your enemy, but on the other hand, she’s done practically nothing to buy your silence; and if these people are going to be honest with you, you might as well be honest with them. “Sort of,” you continue. “Nakai-kun tipped me off beforehand that Fujimori-san was going to approach me. I thought it was weird that they were hiring a temporary contract position and rushing auditions. Now I know about the thing with Saito-san, of course, so it makes more sense.”

“Kao-chan,” Fukuda crows, slapping his knee. “That little busybody!”

Abe sighs. “God, she really cannot help herself, can she?”

“Anything else you know?” Yoshioka prods.

You sigh. “Don’t get mad at him, please, but Koizumi-kun also took me out for ramen during that first week. He told me that everyone in the violin section was close with my predecessor, and that they were all angry about something, and directing the anger at me because they couldn’t direct it where it was supposed to go.”

“Wow,” Yoshioka says. “I’m surprised he warned you against Nakai-kun’s wishes. Those two are childhood friends, and he’s terrified of her.”

 _That explains a lot,_ you think.

“Pfft,” Fukuda snorts. “You think we were _angry_ at you?”

You glare at him. “What the hell was I supposed to take away from your coordinated harassment campaign?”

“About that...” Hasegawa shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “I’ve never said sorry to you. I want to apologize. It was wrong for all of us to be cruel to you.”

“Oh,” you say, startled. “No, I didn’t mean you-”

“Quit apologizing, dummy,” Fukuda says to Hasegawa. “I’m the one who made you do it, and _I’m_ sure as hell not apologizing.”

“Thanks,” you mutter flatly.

“Anyways, no one was angry at you, don’t be self-centered,” Fukuda says, flapping a hand at you. “We were just trying to drive you out, that’s all.”

“All right,” Yoshioka says again. “I’m just going to start from the beginning. No stupid comments from the peanut gallery,” he adds, looking pointedly at Fukuda. Fukuda makes an exaggerated lip-zipping motion, then throws a pretend key over his shoulder. _God_ , he’s such a jackass, and not even in the endearing way that you’re apparently into as far as romantic partners are concerned.

“So. The other assistant concertmaster before you, Shinoda Ayaka, was in that chair for about three years. She got along really well with everyone - absolutely brilliant player, just so talented,” Yoshioka says. Abe and Hasegawa nod wistfully. You can tell already that they miss her. “The thing about Ayaka-chan is that she was always very mild-mannered, not very good at standing up for herself. It didn’t really matter, because she was so kind that everyone just wanted to cooperate with her naturally. Often people said that Ayaka-chan and Arima and Fukuda formed a perfect trio - Arima with calm and collected guidance, Ayaka-chan with her gentle kindness, and Fukuda as the firecracker who got everyone excited.”

Fukuda takes a silent bow, although he makes good on his promise to keep his stupid comments to himself.

“At first, Arima didn’t have much time for Ayaka-chan,” Yoshioka continues. “He didn’t have anything against her, per se, but he didn’t really favour her either. Then, for some reason, something changed - he started to really take an interest in her.”

You think you know where this is going - a few years back there had been a spate of sexual harassment claims that had rocked the orchestral world globally, ending with several prominent concertmasters being fired for abusing their positions. You’re aware that harassment is a rampant issue in classical music, so it’s no surprise that Japan has had its own fair share of issues.

“It’s not what you’re thinking,” Abe cuts in, halting your train of thought. “Arima-san...it’s never really been about that, for him. He just likes to have total control over everyone and everything.”

Yoshioka nods. “And his ego is massive. He takes all the credit for the orchestra’s successes - surely you’ve noticed that he’s very popular with the donors and the press.”

“I have noticed that,” you agree. “But why the interest in Shinoda-san?”

Hasegawa bites her lip. “Well...Ayaka-chan was so talented that I think maybe...maybe Arima-san was afraid that she would outshine him.”

“He was terrified,” Fukuda snaps, “and he was right to be. He’s _nothing_ compared to-”

“Cool it,” Yoshioka says. “It’s true, though. Basically, he saw an opportunity - if he could become a mentor figure to Ayaka-chan, then he could take the credit for her success. So the two of them started to get very close. He started referring to her as his protégé, and creating opportunities for her that didn’t exist for other people in the section.”

“Like what?” you ask.

“All sorts of things,” Abe says. “For example, just one teaching position for a prestigious summer music academy at Suntory Hall opened up, and Ayaka-chan was given the position before anyone else could even apply. She was also personally recommended by Arima-san to go on tour with the Tokyo Metropolitan Symphony as an extra player.”

You frown. “That sounds like the kind of thing that would create resentment with the section.”

“Bingo,” Yoshioka says. “That was likely Arima’s goal. We think he was trying to isolate her, to make her career more dependent on him and him only. That way she would never end up outshining him.”

“But it didn’t work,” Hasegawa says fiercely. “Ayaka-chan is an angel, and we all liked her so much that no one could bring themselves to resent her.”

“Which made Arima-san angry,” Abe adds.

Yoshioka nods. “It all came to a head when Ayaka-chan caught the attention of a visiting artist. Sarah Chen performed with Tokyo Metropolitan as part of her pan-Asian tour, and took notice of Ayaka-chan, who was playing that concert as an extra musician - again, because Arima gave her a good recommendation with Tokyo Metropolitan’s concertmaster.”

Your heart sinks. This is starting to sound oddly familiar. Sarah Chen, global violin superstar, even more famous than Hilary Faust - it would have been a huge deal for her to take note.

“Chen said,” Fukuda interrupts, smiling wickedly, “that it was a shame Ayaka was only assistant concertmaster, and that Minato Philharmonic would undoubtedly achieve greater heights with her in first chair.”

“And that comment got back to Arima,” Yoshioka says. “As you can imagine, he was _furious_.”

“What did he do?” you ask, although you’re a little afraid to hear the answer.

“Hired a private investigator,” Abe says grimly.

You stare at her in shock. “ _What?_ ”

“He found nothing on Ayaka-chan herself, obviously,” Yoshioka says, shaking his head. “But he did find out about her brother. Petty drug dealer with yakuza connections. Ayaka-chan had no contact with him, but of course, once it got out that her family was like that...”

“What?” you interrupt again. “Why? It’s not her fault.”

“Things are different here, foreigner,” Fukuda snaps. “In case you haven’t realized that yet.”

“Fukuda-kun,” Abe warns, then turns to you. “Arima-san took his findings directly to the board of directors. He bypassed Fujimori-san because he knew she liked Ayaka-chan and would want to protect her. There was a huge uproar, and instead of waiting to see if she would be fired, Ayaka-chan chose to just leave instead.”

“What happened after that?” you say, still completely stunned.

“Arima-san leaked it to key members of the orchestra community,” Hasegawa says, a tight set to her mouth. “So that she’d never be able to find work in Tokyo again. Ayaka-chan ended up moving to Fukuoka. She doesn’t really keep in touch with anyone here - not that I blame her. I guess she just wanted to leave the whole thing behind her.”

You stare at each face in turn, trying to turn everything over in your mind so that it makes sense. You feel completely overloaded with information.

“So with all that in mind,” Fukuda says heatedly, “it just fucking pissed everyone off that Fujimori was able to gloss over the fallout so fast. She rushed a cute young foreigner into the chair, talked you up to Saito-san and the board, and basically shoved you in everyone’s faces to distract from what happened to Ayaka. It worked, too. The donors and the board love you, God knows why, and Fujimori was really gambling on you winning the audition to keep continuity and avoid angering Saito-san. So basically, your presence meant that there weren’t any lasting consequences for Arima’s actions.”

A dawning sense of horror is overtaking you. You flush, and stare down at your shoes. “Hasegawa-kun,” you say, barely above a whisper. “Was the audition...fair?”

“Oh,” Hasegawa gasps, taking your hands. “Oh, no, don’t even think that way. You won that all on your own. In fact, you and that German girl had such similar playing styles that it was difficult to tell you apart - in the end it really did come down to that final round.”

You let out a quiet sigh of relief. “So...” you venture. “Why did you give up on trying to oust me?”

“We got to know you,” Hasegawa says. “To me, at least, it started to feel really unfair for you to be paying the price for a situation you never asked to be in.”

“No one expected you to last more than a couple weeks,” Fukuda says with a shrug.

“Fukuda,” Yoshioka warns. “I never approved of what the violin section was doing. Even though I understood the reasons, there came a point where it was obvious to everyone that you weren’t going to be driven out. At that point it also became obvious that Arima was trying to play the same game with you, and no one wanted to see that happen. We kept trying to invite you out with us, to make sure you weren’t isolated, but...”

“Arima told me I shouldn’t socialize with other sections,” you say quietly.

“See?” Abe says angrily. “That’s bullshit. No one cares who you go out drinking with. He managed to keep you from making friends by capitalizing on the culture difference and lying to you.”

“Meanwhile, he was telling the violin section not to invite you out because you’d told him you were under a lot of pressure leading up to the audition and weren’t feeling up to socializing,” Hasegawa says, twisting her hands in her lap. “We...most of us knew it was...”

“We knew it was bullshit,” Fukuda interrupts, “but if anyone had gone against him on that, they would’ve been putting themselves in the line of fire.”

There’s a long moment of silence where you try and digest all of it. Your boss has been working in secret since you arrived at the orchestra to destabilize you and isolate you from your peers - psychological warfare, essentially - and worse yet, it almost worked. You think back to the audition week, how lonely and desperate and sick and beaten-down you’d felt - so ashamed about the bullying that you couldn’t bring yourself to tell your soon-to-be boyfriend, and so obsessed with proving yourself that you’d become seriously ill.

Something else occurs to you, as well.

“So you...” you say to Fukuda grudgingly. “You put yourself on the line, didn’t you? By telling me to watch out for Arima. If I’d gone back and repeated those words to him...”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself, you sad woman,” Fukuda says, rolling his eyes. “I had nothing to lose. Arima already hates me. I annoy the fuck out of him.”

You know even as he says this that it’s total bullshit. You’d sort of picked up on the fact that Arima isn’t Fukuda’s biggest fan, but that’s a far cry from Arima hating Fukuda enough to actually do something about him.

“Oh, man,” you sigh, covering your face with your hands. You suddenly feel exhausted. “Holy shit.”

“Listen,” Abe says, reaching over and resting a hand on your arm. “I agree with Fukuda-kun. I don’t want to apologize to you. Instead, I want to promise you that we’ll all do better. Okay? We all got too consumed with our anger and grief, and we didn’t think of you as someone who was also suffering, until it was too late and Arima-san had already begun to cause damage.”

“Well said,” Yoshioka agrees. “We all want Arima out. Everyone’s had enough of living under his thumb. But we shouldn’t have used you as a means to that end, so we’re all going to work hard to make it right.”

You feel touched, but also embarrassed. “Oh, no,” you protest, “I...now that I know the background...”

“See?” Fukuda drawls, smirking at the other three. “We’re absolved. Anyways, I’m not going to apologize because the whole thing was character-building. Wouldn’t you agree? You’re pretty tough for an idiot foreigner.”

“I wouldn’t want an apology from the likes of you,” you retort crisply, folding your arms and glaring at him.

“O ho!” Fukuda cackles. “Now there’s the stubborn moron we’ve all grown to tolerate.”

“ _Anyways_ ,” you say, pointedly turning away from him and towards the rest of the group. “I appreciate your words, a lot, and I’m really sorry about what happened to Shinoda-san. If there’s anything I can do to help oust Arima...”

“Well, actually,” Hasegawa admits, “we sort of have a plan, but it depends on your cooperation.”

“Let’s hear it,” you reply. “Tell me how to help. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“Famous last words,” Fukuda says, with a kind of manic glee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's that, out of nowhere? It's the strings sections with a steel chair! Watch out, Arima ( ✧≖ ͜ʖ≖) P.S. please enjoy me roasting my own emoji usage via Fukuda LOLOL
> 
> I find the PR stuff so interesting. I did a lot of research, and it's really different in Japan - you actually can have quite a bit of privacy. INTERESTING REAL WORLD EXAMPLE: Kaiba's Japanese voice actor, Kenjiro Tsuda, actually managed to hide for years that he was MARRIED WITH KIDS. He eventually fessed up, but it was just so crazy to me that he was able to keep that on the DL, because Japan doesn't really have paparazzi or anything like that. Not to say that the Asian press can't be incredibly invasive about celebrities' personal lives, but to me the dynamic seems more like celebrities feeling pressured to share to maintain a certain level of relationships with their fans - which Seto obviously wouldn't care about, since he's in tech and his success doesn't really depend on his fans feeling like he's personally available to them. (Also since, like, he just clearly doesn't care about PR. This is the guy who made Mokuba keep the camera rolling so he could laugh like a maniac on live broadcasts.) 
> 
> **Music mentioned in this chapter:**  
> [Telemann - Violin Fantasia no. 12 in A minor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lxDjb8v7tV8) \- These little fantasias are so damn pretty. If anyone's wondering what Anders the cellist means when he talks abot _vibrato_ : it's the kind of wiggly/vibrating sound many instruments can make at the end of notes. Lol, I'm so sorry, if any musicians in the comments can describe it better I'll edit this. Anyways, vibrato wasn't common in baroque playing - some violinists (like the reader and apparently the guy in the video I linked) are picky purists about it, some don't care and just play what sounds good to them.
> 
>  **Orchestral terms & tidbits:**  
> 1\. The _Tokyo Metropolitan Symphony Orchestra_ is one of Japan's top five orchestras and a player on the global classical music scene. _Suntory Hall_ is one of Japan's premier performing arts venues. So when Arima was giving Ayaka chances to play as an extra musician with the Tokyo Metropolitan on tour and summer teaching positions at Suntory Hall, that's a big deal!  
> 2\. If you're curious about the classical music scandal the reader is referring to, here's a [fascinating deep-dive](https://www.theatlantic.com/education/archive/2020/01/conservatories-sexual-harassment-abuse/604351/) on the whole thing, that goes into how insular classical music culture is and how harassment thrives. 
> 
> Y'all still enjoying this? I'm a little worried I lost a bunch of you after Arc II (￣▽￣*)ゞ Either way I hope you're all happy, healthy and doing OK with pandemic stuff and life in general <3


	18. Chapter Eighteen

“I could absolutely destroy him.”

You can tell by the look on Seto’s face that he’s a hair’s breadth from actually doing it, whether you approve or not, and you know that he absolutely has the means at his disposal. “Listen,” you say, in your most soothing voice.

“No!” Seto says loudly, slamming his palm on the coffee table. “You do _not_ tell me to listen to whatever defense you’re about to cook up for that worthless piece of dogshit-”

“I’m not defending him!” you cut in, before Seto can work himself up even more. “I’m telling you that I want to deal with it-”

“By yourself? Because that worked so well last time-”

“ _With the orchestra_ ,” you interrupt him again, fixing him with a glare. “Seto. It’s really important that we all do this together. They’ve been subject to Arima’s bullshit for years, and if he - I don’t know, goes missing or has his assets seized or whatever the hell you have in mind - it’s not going to have the desired effect, do you understand? Arima’s built a long-standing culture of fear and submission in the orchestra, and they all need to overcome that by standing up to him.”

Seto folds his arms. He looks _furious_. “You’re playing with fire,” he says flatly. “I don’t like it, I don’t condone it, and I want you to let me handle it.”

“Were you not just listening to me?” you say in frustration. “Look, I know you’re upset-”

“ _Upset?!_ ” he booms, bordering on a shout. “That’s the understatement of the _fucking century_ \- he - the minute you got there he was already planning how to completely break you down - do you not remember how _sick_ you were in January-”

You flinch back in your chair, just a little, but Seto takes note and his mouth snaps shut immediately. Your cheeks flush and you stare at your lap. You can hear him inhale deeply through his nose.

“You don’t like it when I raise my voice,” he says after a moment, his tone very even.

You shake your head, feeling humiliated by your own stupid reactions.

You hear Seto take a few steps towards you. He eases himself down into the armchair next to you and wraps his arms around you. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s not you,” you rush to assure him. “Just, um...my mom, sometimes...”

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” Seto says, resting his chin on top of your head.

You know he understands.

“I still disagree with you,” Seto says, but you can tell he’s working very hard to keep his emotions in check. “To me, a problem solved is a problem solved, and from my perspective it seems like he just needs to be gone, regardless of how that’s achieved.”

“I understand what you’re saying, but I think you’re wrong,” you counter calmly. “If Arima is suddenly removed and we don’t deal with the underlying problems, then what if the new concertmaster is a bully? The orchestra will remain vulnerable to bad management and abusive power dynamics.”

“I don’t see why you have to be the one to take this on,” Seto argues.

“I’m not doing it alone,” you say, cupping the side of his face. “Hey. Look at me. I’m not on my own this time, so you don’t have to worry, okay?”

Seto frowns at you for a long moment, then gathers you into his arms again. “You can tell me that all you want, but I’m still going to worry.” He sighs in resignation and kisses the side of your head. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”

“Thank you,” you say, grinning and squeezing him tight. “I try.”

* * *

Nakai’s apartment is cute. Frighteningly cute. Every surface is meticulously coordinated in either blush pink, peach, rose-gold or eggshell, and there are strategically-placed plushies - just enough so that it comes across as charming and not juvenile. The books on her shelf are lined up just-so, full of romantic classics - Brontë and Austen and Kawabata and Shakespeare - though some of the shelves are adorned only with pretty little succulents and cat sculptures.

All of this just makes her even scarier, in your opinion.

“Wah ha ha! Kao-chan, you little schemer!”

“Don’t call me that,” Nakai snaps, whacking Fukuda upside the head. He doesn’t even seem to feel it.

“I mean...” Hasegawa twists her hands uncomfortably in her lap. “It’s a good idea, it’s just....”

“Shockingly Machiavellian?” Yoshioka sighs, massaging his forehead.

“I’m telling you,” Fukuda laughs, “this is why we need her. She’s so scary. _Uwaa_ , Nakai-sempai, so scary~”

Nakai whacks him again, harder this time.

“I mean...” Against your better judgment, you do see the logic in what Nakai’s saying. “It’s a pretty solid idea, I think. If you all keep pretending to hate me, Arima will feel like his shitty mind games are working, and he won’t suspect what’s up.”

“But won’t you be lonely?” Abe says, frowning. “It can’t be easy not having anyone to talk to at work.”

You shrug. “It’s okay. Really. I know it’s for the best, I’ll still be able to talk to you guys outside of work, and I have lots of other friends too. I won’t be lonely.”

“Lots of other friends,” Fukuda says, clasping his hands under his chin innocently. “Like the King of Games, and your sexy rich sugar daddy-”

“ _Have you no shame_ ,” Yoshioka interrupts. This time he’s the one to whack Fukuda.

“Eat shit, Fukuda,” you say flatly, then continue. “So you don’t think it’s a good idea to try and dig up something on Arima?” you ask Nakai, who has just finished picking apart every single aspect of the plan the rest of you had come up with.

“Well, like I said, he’ll know if you start poking around,” Nakai says with a shrug, “but I also doubt there’s actually anything on him.”

“What?” you stare at her. “The guy is straight-up evil, and you’re telling me he doesn’t have a few skeletons in his closet?”

“No,” Nakai says, “because he just does evil things out in the open and seems to have a convincing reason for them. When he took down Shinoda-kun, he never hid the fact that he went digging into her past - he justified it by saying that he was concerned about the orchestra’s reputation. There was no way to _prove_ he did it because he was jealous of her.”

“But it was obvious, wasn’t it?” Abe demands, suddenly heated. “It happened right after Sarah Chen’s remark, and he’d been-”

“Yes, yes, openly grooming her, playing sick mind games, I know,” Nakai cuts in impatiently. “It’s obvious to us because we were watching it happen from the inside. But that’s nothing concrete, and it won’t hold up with the board.”

“So what _will_ hold up with the board?” you ask, frustrated.

“Simple,” Nakai says. “We have to catch him in the act.”

* * *

“You’re coming with us.”

“No.”

Seto is walking around the penthouse, organizing things that don’t need to be organized, purely as an expression of stress and irritation. You’re about a half-step behind him, even though you almost have to jog to keep up with his long strides.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“ _Yes_ ,” you insist, skipping around so that you’re in front of him. You fold your arms and glare up at him. Seto rolls his eyes, grabs your shoulders, and moves you out of the way before continuing on his quest to straighten books and hunt for imaginary specks of dust.

“Why are you so adamant about this?” Seto says, after the third time you try to head him off. Apparently he’s realized that trying to escape you is a lost cause, so he sits down on the couch and leans back, folding his arms behind his head. “You’d better stop wasting my time and make a good case.”

You flop down on the couch beside him. “What is your problem?” you ask in return. “It’s just drinks. You do this all the time with business partners.”

Seto moves to get up, so you throw yourself rather violently into his lap to knock him back down. “What the hell is _your_ problem?” he snaps, although he does circle his arms around you and pull you closer.

You turn around and straddle him, placing a hand on each side of his face.

“Seto.”

“Yes.”

“My love.”

“ _What_.”

“Light of my life.”

“Get to the point.”

“This is mandatory, and I’m not going to hear any more arguing about it,” you say, planting a kiss on each of his cheeks.

“You can’t just say you’re not hearing any more arguing,” Seto argues, “not if I still have things to say about it.”

“Okay, then,” you reply, keeping your hands on his face and looking him in the eyes. “Say your things. I’m listening.”

“I don’t want to go,” he says flatly.

You wait for a few seconds. When it becomes clear that nothing more is forthcoming, you tilt your head quizzically. “Missing is the _why_.”

“Because I don’t enjoy spending time with those geeks,” he says, glaring at some spot over your left shoulder.

“But you do,” you point out. “You spend a lot of time with Yuugi-kun already. You like Anzu-chan. No, don’t make that face, I know you like her. You enjoy riling up Jounouchi-kun. And you don’t have anything against Honda-kun. Or do you?” you narrow your eyes at him. “Do you and Honda-kun have a secret grudge I don’t know about?”

“Look,” Seto says, sounding extremely annoyed, “you don’t understand my relationship with them-”

“I understand that all of you went through some really scary shit together as teenagers and that they’ve been trying to reach out to you and include you in things ever since,” you cut him off. “And it’s working, sort of. You play Overwatch with them every weekend. You’ll go to parties every now and again. So why not go for drinks, just this once?”

“Because I don’t want to set a precedent,” Seto mutters. “Soon they’ll start _expecting_ me to hang out with them, and...”

“And what?” you prompt.

“They’ll think we’re friends.”

“You _are_ friends.”

“So everyone keeps telling me.”

“Why is it so important to you that they’re _not_ your friends?”

“Fine, I’ll go!” Seto snaps. “Just stop fucking interrogating me.”

You think about that for a moment as you study his peevish expression. You’ve clearly hit a sore spot, although it’s a confusing one. “Hey,” you say gently, leaning forward to rest your forehead against his. “You don’t have to go. I didn’t mean to push you so much.” You kiss him very softly, then pull back. “It’s just...making friends with all of them has been so good for me. I didn’t even know I could have friends that would care this much about me, and it’s really changed the way I think. I want you to have things like that in your life too.”

“I have you and Mokuba,” Seto says, but he wraps his arms around your waist and slumps forward to rest his head on your shoulder.

“There’s no limit to the amount of good things you’re allowed to have,” you say, and you’re surprised to find that you actually believe your own words.

* * *

Despite Seto’s constant insistence that _these people_ are _not his friends_ , Yuugi, Anzu, Honda and Jounouchi sure do understand him extremely well.

For example, all of them know not to make a big deal when the two of you show up to the bar together - no one really comments on Seto’s presence (other than a “hey, dickwad” from Jounouchi), as if he’s a skittish wild animal who will bolt if anyone looks directly at him. They’re not entirely wrong.

No one really asks him how he’s doing either, because they’re all aware (from long experience, you presume) that asking Seto direct questions seems to make him feel like he’s under interrogation. Instead, Yuugi launches into a recount of the day-to-day happenings at KaibaCorp, letting Seto interject when he feels like it.

It’s funny, and sweet, and really touching. Even Jounouchi seems to sort of instinctively get when to give Seto shit and when to leave him alone.

Afterwards, Seto is a little quiet. You don’t ask him about it, instead letting him process on his own time. The next time you invite him out with everyone, he agrees - snappishly, but without any argument.

* * *

“What are you looking at?”

“Um, nothing.” You quickly turn around and busy yourself with filling Egg’s food dish.

“You were staring at me,” Seto says, still typing away on his laptop. “Which you always do when you want to talk about something.”

“Excuse me?” You turn around and raise an eyebrow at him. “I don’t do dumb stuff like that.”

“Yes you do,” Seto says boredly, not looking up from the screen. “Either you want to talk to me or you’re hungry and don’t want to be the first person to bring up dinner.”

Having someone know you that well feels a little disturbing. _You_ hadn’t even known you did that. You frown.

“Um, I guess I’m...hungry?”

“No you’re not. I can tell the difference.”

 _So_ disturbing. You ignore him and start making kissy noises at Egg to try and entice him to his food dish. He’s on a diet right now with a special cat food, and he is _not_ into it.

“Come on,” you say to Egg, who is staring suspiciously at you from the sink. “I spent like, a million dollars on this fancy cat food. You little booger. Come here.”

“Don’t coddle him,” Seto instructs. “Just leave him alone and don’t feed him treats in the meantime. He’ll get hungry and eat eventually.”

“Don’t tell me how to parent my cat,” you argue. “I don’t want him to have emotional trauma around mealtimes.”

“And yet you call him names and guilt him about your finances.”

You roll your eyes.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me. Come here and tell me what’s on your mind,” Seto orders, in much the same tone you just ordered your cat. You let off a grumpy sigh and obey anyways.

It takes you a minute to figure out exactly what you want to say. “I was just kind of wondering about something,” you begin eventually. “You said I don’t understand your relationship with everyone else. You’re right, I don’t. But I want to.”

“Why are you on about this again?” Seto says, exasperated. “I’ve been socializing, just like you wanted.”

“That’s not what I want!” you say in frustration. “I don’t want you to force yourself to socialize with them just because you think _I_ want it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” Seto deadpans. He still hasn’t looked up once from his computer screen.

You take a deep breath and quell the urge to tear your hair out in frustration. You did, after all, make an informed choice to date the most difficult man alive. “Okay,” you say, switching tacks. “So I know some crazy stuff went down when you were all kids.”

“Indeed,” Seto says flatly.

“No one will really tell me what happened,” you press on, “but I know whatever it was was really dangerous, and kind of traumatic, and...”

“Get to the point.”

“Who’s Atem?”

Seto’s reaction is swift and frightening. His face darkens, and he slams his laptop shut. “ _Don’t talk about him,_ ” he snaps, then abruptly stands up and leaves for the only place in your apartment with a door - the bathroom. Said door closes loudly behind him.

_What the hell just happened?_

You hear water running for a few minutes, then nothing for a while. Five minutes pass - ten, fifteen - you’re in the middle of debating whether you should go check on him or just leave him be, when the bathroom door opens again. Seto looks perfectly composed. He returns to the couch and sits next to you without comment, moving to retrieve his laptop.

“Wait,” you say. “Seto. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s fine,” Seto says, and his tone is so perfectly even that you know it’s really _not_ fine, so you wrap your arms around him and lean your head on his shoulder in a bid to try and communicate how sorry you really are.

Seto responds by pulling you into his lap and burying his face into your hair. He holds you like that for a while. His embrace is so tight that it actually hurts a little, but you don’t let go.

* * *

You can hear the distant sounds of Seto and Mokuba arguing before the elevator door into the penthouse even opens. You think about making yourself scarce, but you also were really looking forward to a cold milk pudding straight out of the fridge, so you settle in at the kitchen island and wait for the storm to blow your way.

“It’s my account, I don’t see why I can’t post what I like-”

“You didn’t even _want_ to start posting on Twitter, and now that the PR department has taken over, suddenly you’re into it, I can’t _believe_ you-”

Neither of them have noticed you yet. You dig your phone out of your pocket and navigate to Seto’s Twitter page. You start to laugh.

“Don’t encourage him,” Mokuba growls, glancing in your direction. “Actually, you know what? _You_ talk some sense into him, for once.” He steals a bite of your pudding and then stomps off towards his bedroom, scooping up Egg on the way.

“Ahem.” You clear your throat and try your best to stop laughing. “Mokuba’s right, you can’t post stuff like this.”

“Why not?” Seto snaps, folding his arms and glaring at you. “I’m allowed to weigh in.”

You can’t help it. You bust out laughing again. “This isn’t weighing in, this is bullying.”

Seto has re-tweeted a competitor’s product announcement. His tweet consists of simply the word _Trash_.

The tweet has four hundred thousand likes and climbing. One of the replies reads: _Whoever got Kaiba onto social media deserves a fucking medal_

“Hey, look,” you say, delighted. “Someone thinks I should get a medal!”

Something about handing over access of his social media accounts to the PR department has activated the massive part of Seto’s brain that is responsible for rebelling against any and all restrictions placed upon him, so he frequently hijacks his own accounts back and posts things that are distinctly _not_ in line with the PR strategy. Often it’s harmless - product updates, bits of tech he’s working on, or signal-boosting science articles he finds interesting. Sometimes it’s savage takedowns. So it goes.

(You noticed that last week, he’d commented on one of Honda’s pictures on Instagram, a vintage motorcycle that Honda had been restoring in the shop. Just another thumbs-up emoji, but for some reason seeing it made you feel oddly emotional.)

“You _should_ get a medal,” Mokuba calls back down the hall, apparently not quite out of earshot yet. “Everyone who puts up with my brother should get a medal.”

“Go apologize,” you tell Seto sternly. “You’re making his life hard right now.”

Seto returns about ten minutes later, his arm around a sullen Mokuba’s shoulders. “We’re watching a movie,” he announces. “Mokuba’s choice.”

“He’s trying to bribe his way back into my good graces,” Mokuba mutters, but he lets his brother steer him towards the couch anyways.

“Is it working?” Seto says. “We could order from that new Korean barbeque place you like.”

Mokuba considers it. “Let’s order dessert, too. And leave your fucking Twitter alone for a week.”

“Fine. Deal.”

You all call it a night after the movie - everyone has had a long day - but before Mokuba heads off to his bedroom, Seto catches him in a sudden, tight hug.

“What’s up with you?” Mokuba laughs, trying to duck free.

“Nothing,” Seto snaps. “Can’t I hug my own brother?”

“Okay, okay,” Mokuba says, easygoing as ever. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Seto mutters, then releases his brother and gives him a gentle shove towards his bedroom. “Go to bed.”

Seto seems preoccupied as you both get ready for bed. You decide to give him a little while to process whatever’s going on in that complicated brain of his. When you’re lying side by side in the dark you roll over to face him, lacing your fingers through his.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Seto sighs. You can’t see his expression, but the fact that he didn’t sass you back with some variation of _talk about what, exactly_ tells you that whatever it is is really eating at him.

“Does Mokuba resent me?”

It takes you a moment to process that. “... _What?_ What on earth are you talking about?”

“We’ve been arguing more lately.”

“I mean, you could make his job a little easier on the PR side of things, but I doubt he _resents_ you.” You curl up into Seto’s side, and he puts his arm around you to bring you in closer, but the motion is more absent than anything. “What do you mean you’re arguing more lately? It doesn’t seem to have changed much since I met the two of you.”

“Lately is the wrong word,” Seto says. “I meant in the past couple years.”

“So you guys didn’t argue when you were younger?”

“Not often, no.” He pauses. “Although I wouldn’t blame him for having some pent-up anger. I was...a less-than-perfect parent to him.”

“Because you’re not his dad,” you point out. “You’re his brother. You were both kids. He understands that.”

“It went beyond that,” Seto says tiredly. “I did things that put both of us at immense risk. I was irresponsible. Sometimes even cruel.”

You have a hard time imagining that, but you have no choice but to take him at his word for it. “But you’ve worked hard to put it right,” you guess, and you feel him nod in confirmation.

“Maybe it’s not enough,” he mutters. “Maybe he’s picking fights about...things like social media, because he really wants to argue about other, bigger things.”

“Have you talked about the past with him at all?”

“Extensively. I thought we’d dealt with it.”

You think about that for a moment. “Is it possible Mokuba just feels more comfortable arguing with you now?”

Seto turns to look at you. “What? What do you mean?”

“Um...” you struggle a little with how to phrase it. “I mean this in the nicest way possible, but based on what you’ve said I’m guessing you weren’t an easy person to get along with when you were younger, right?”

Seto snorts. “That observation is predicated on the assumption that I’m easy to get along with now.”

“Okay, okay,” you laugh. “So let’s say you were even _more_ difficult back then. Could it be that Mokuba just didn’t feel like he could push back against things you said and did? And now that you’re older, your relationship has just gotten better - there’s more trust, so he feels safe expressing his feelings with you.”

“Hm,” Seto says curtly. “I see.” There’s a long silence before he speaks again. “What do I do when he expresses frustration with me? I feel like I never know what’s going to upset him until it’s too late.”

“That’s why he’s telling you,” you say, pressing a kiss to Seto’s shoulder. “You can’t read his mind. All you can do is listen carefully to what he says, try to understand it, then avoid it in the future if you can. And try to pick up common threads.”

“Such as?”

“Don’t keep secrets from him. Take better care of yourself. Try not to cause social media firestorms that make his job harder.”

“Hm.” Seto pulls you into his chest with a sigh, bringing his hand up to rest on the top of your head. “You know, for someone so thickheaded, you can be very perceptive.”

“Wow,” you laugh. “Thank you.”

“Why is that?”

“Um...” you shrug uncomfortably. “I think for a lot of my life, I was afraid to really participate in relationships with people, so I just watched from the outside. It’s easy to pick up on patterns when you’re not in the middle of it, experiencing all the emotions yourself.”

“So you say,” Seto replies distantly. “And yet I’ve also spent much of my life on the outside, without much in the way of perceptiveness to show for it.” And then, in a much quieter tone: “I don’t know how everyone puts up with me.”

“Hey,” you say, putting your hands on either side of his face and making him look at you. “People don’t _put up_ with you. Your friends love you and want to be around you. Mokuba and I love you. All you can do is try your best to meet people in the middle.”

In the faint moonlight spilling in through the window, you can see a wide-eyed, startled, unguarded expression on Seto’s face - much like the night you’d first called him by name.

“What?” you say nervously. “Did I say something weird?”

“It’s nothing,” he says, but he suddenly rolls over, pinning you underneath him, and the look in his eyes is so tender it makes your chest tighten a little. He reaches down to brush your hair away from your forehead, then tangles his fingers into the locks at the back of your head and leans down to press a long, soft, lingering kiss to your lips.

* * *

The next day, you and Seto are chatting on the phone as you walk to work.

“You said you were doing something after rehearsal today?”

“Uh huh,” you reply. “Going to Abe-kun’s house. You know.” You lower your voice. “For _strategic_ reasons.”

“I want it on the record that I don’t approve of your strategy.”

“Noted, as with the last five times you objected.” You pause as something occurs to you. “Do you see any actual legitimate flaws in the plan?”

Seto scoffs on the other side of the line. “For fuck’s sakes. My girlfriend isolating herself at work and actively using herself as bait to piss off her psychopath of a boss doesn’t count as a legitimate flaw?”

“It doesn’t,” you argue, “because that’s just you being over-protective. If I wasn’t involved and it was someone _else_ would you think it was a good plan?”

There’s a long silence. “Yes,” Seto admits grudgingly.

“So what are you doing after work?” you ask, changing the subject.

Another long silence.

“Seto?” you prompt, checking your screen to ensure that the call hasn’t dropped.

“Going out for drinks,” he replies shortly, then pauses again. “With Yuugi and Jounouchi.”

“Oh,” you reply, trying not to sound too pleased, because you know it will annoy him. “What’s the occasion?”

“Because I want to,” he snaps. “Are we done with the interrogation now?”

You bite back a laugh. He’s so fucking cute. “Sorry, sorry. Okay, I’m almost at work, I gotta go.”

“All right. Call me when you get home.”

“Bye!”

“Love you. Goodbye.”

The call cuts out abruptly, and you stop walking. Colour rises to your cheeks as you stare at your phone in stunned silence.

You’re aware of Seto’s feelings for you, and he’s aware of yours - but neither of you have actually directly said anything like that since that profoundly weird conversation-slash-business-negotiation in his office, months ago. You take a deep breath to try and quell your pounding heartbeat as you wonder what on earth had prompted it.

Then you realize that you had technically said it first - just last night, in fact, although maybe not quite as directly or as laconically as Seto had. It had seemed so natural and obvious to you that it didn’t even particularly feel like a declaration.

You call him back.

“What?” he says, answering the phone in his usual charming way.

“I love you, bye,” you say quickly into the phone, and hang back up. You think you hear him laugh just before the call cuts out.

You start laughing too. The two of you are such utter fucking disasters, but you can’t bring yourself to be anything other than deliriously happy about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk, Seto's relationship with the nerd herd is so fascinating to me. He spends a lot of time loudly going about how they are NOT HIS FRIENDS but he's always following them around like a cat and butting into their personal business and ranting to them about HIS personal business. My headcanon here is basically that they're his (only) friends, he KNOWS they're his (only) friends somewhere deep down, but he's built a lot of his identity around being Someone Who Doesn't Need Friends, so he's gotten himself stuck - he can't really admit it without a part of his identity coming apart. (Reader is a little bit different because their relationship has always been a bit nebulous and resisting easy categorization, so it was easier for him not to feel stifled by the "friend" label.)
> 
> I also like writing about Seto's parenting anxiety. He's still quite young in this fic, in his mid-to-late twenties somewhere, but I'd imagine raising a kid who is now grown-up and competent and frustrated with you for being out-of-touch would make one feel rather old and useless. They're going through this interesting process where the age gap isn't as significant between them anymore and Mokuba is reasonably independent, so for the first time they can actually sort of just be brothers, but that comes with its own set of difficulties.
> 
> No music in this chapter! So I'm just gonna do my usual thing and link you to music I like but couldn't shoehorn in anywhere, LOLOL. Shoutout to beautiful, beautiful wind instruments: [the incomparable Albrecht Mayer playing some Bach.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2DyzkJ6HKUo) This guy is the Oboe King. The KING!
> 
> Thank you guys as always for the wonderful feedback. Everyone always makes me think with their comments, about everything from characterization to relationships to music. I appreciate it so much, you don't even know - the incredible regular comment section gang, the peeps who drop in just for a chapter or two, everyone!! <3 (Also shoutout to any silent readers out there, I hope you're enjoying the story!)


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to everyone who wanted Fukuda to get beat up ♡( ◡‿◡ )

“Vivaldi,” Seto says, paging through your score. “That’s a new grudge of yours.”

You’re lying flat on your face on his office floor, violin abandoned in its case nearby. Egg is sitting on your head. You feel like maybe having a cat on your head while your face is pressed into carpet is a good way to suffocate yourself, and you don’t even particularly care.

“Uuuugggghhhh,” you groan. “Wanna mercy kill me?”

“Musicians are so dramatic,” Seto mutters, nudging you roughly with his foot. Egg hops off your head and takes off for parts unknown. As if to prove his point, you flop onto your back with a theatrically-exaggerated movement and glare up at him.

Seto nudges you again. “Get up, idiot. What’s your problem with Vivaldi?”

You obligingly pull yourself into a sitting position, scratching the back of your head and sighing. “Vivaldi isn’t my problem. The Four Fucking Seasons is my problem.”

“Hm.” Seto frowns and flips back to the cover of the score. “It is a little over-played, isn’t it.”

That fills you with such a surge of pride that you launch yourself to your feet and throw yourself into Seto’s chest, grinning sappily up at him. Your STEM-purist boyfriend, expressing an actual opinion about overplayed classical music. You’re so proud you could die.

“What the hell is up with you?” Seto grumbles, circling his arms around your waist and frowning down at you. “I can’t keep up with your weird mood swings.”

“I love you,” you say happily, getting up on your tiptoes to press your nose against his. “You’re my favourite tech bro.”

“Your favourite _what_ -”

You cut him off with a kiss, and his resistance melts away within seconds.

A few minutes later you resume the conversation, although both of you are significantly more disheveled.

“I mean, it’s not as bad as it _could_ be,” you muse, leafing through the score. Seto stands behind you, with his arms around your waist and his chin resting on your shoulder. “See? There’s actually two scores here - one by Vivaldi, and one by Max Richter.”

“Max who?”

“German contemporary composer. His version is called _Recomposed_ \- it’s basically a remix of the original Four Seasons. It’s quite pretty.”

Seto hums, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “So you’re playing both? That seems redundant.”

“No, it’s actually kind of a cool concept,” you say, getting excited despite yourself. “We’re alternating movements - so we’re playing Richter’s version of _Spring_ , Vivaldi’s version of _Summer_ , Richter’s _Fall_ and Vivaldi’s _Winter_. It’s for the Tokyo Chamber Music Festival next month. The festival is a big deal, it’s at Suntory Hall and Tokyo Metropolitan will be playing too-”

“So then why the melodrama?” Seto teases, lightly nipping at your earlobe.

“ _Hey,_ ” you gasp, an involuntary shiver coursing through your shoulders. You clear your throat. “Anyways. The way Arima plays it is stupid. That’s the problem. He’s the leader for this piece, and he’s playing the Vivaldi sections like it’s frickin’ Mozart. With vibrato. _Ugh_.”

“Do elaborate,” Seto says, sounding more amused than anything. “What’s a leader, and why is vibrato a problem?”

“It means there’s no conductor,” you explain, as Seto starts to trail very distracting kisses up and down the side of your neck. “Arima is leading the orchestra while also playing the solo parts - _ah_ , what are you doing-”

“Continue,” he says lowly in your ear.

“And vibrato on baroque music is just _wrong_ ,” you complain. “It’s such a stupid high-classical revisionist aesthetic, it’s really - _mm_ \- really offensive - are you listening?”

“Yes,” Seto says, although his hands have wandered under the hem of your shirt.

“No you’re - ah - no you’re _not_ -” You turn around to face him, which only seems to encourage him. He lifts you into his arms, and your legs wrap instinctively around his waist. That encourages him even more, and within seconds you’re up against the wall.

“It’s - fucking adorable when you rant about - esoteric nonsense,” Seto says against your lips between kisses.

“Esoteric _what_ -” and then his tongue is in your mouth, so you can’t really continue that thought, but it’s not like you’re complaining.

* * *

“Don’t worry,” Arima says pleasantly, “this is just a routine check-in. You’ve been performing very well lately.”

“That’s so kind of you to say,” you reply, also very pleasantly.

“I notice that your health seems much better these days.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“And how do you feel you’re settling into the section?”

That’s a trick question, and you’re ready for it. You cast your eyes down. “Well...”

Your co-workers had coached you on this. _Say as little as possible, let him draw his own conclusions_ in Yoshioka’s words. _You can’t lie worth shit, so keep your stupid mouth shut_ in Fukuda’s.

“I see,” Arima says gently, reaching over to lay a hand on your arm. It takes all of your willpower not to flinch away, but you manage it. “I think we’d both hoped you would be on better terms with your colleagues by now, ne?”

You nod silently. Arima seems to take it as embarrassment, which suits you just fine.

“I know the violin section is a close-knit group, and hard to break into,” Arima says sympathetically, “but that doesn’t excuse you from trying. Will you work a little harder to get along with everyone?”

You realize now that this is a classic Arima maneuver - getting your guard down with sympathy, then once your defenses are weakened casting the blame on you so that you feel even worse. He’s disgusting.

“I’ll try,” you say quietly.

“Good,” Arima replies, patting your arm. “On a more positive note, I’m relieved to see you’ve reverted to more traditional concert attire for the time being. I know you understand that it’s for the sake of the donors. Maybe next season we can lobby for a change to the dress code - if you’d like, I’d happily advocate for you to have a place on the negotiating committee.”

“Oh, would you?” you say, looking up and smiling at him. “I’d really like that.”

“Of course,” Arima says, smiling back. “You’re so talented, and such a wonderful addition to this orchestra. I’m sure you’d be an invaluable member of the committee.”

You keep smiling, and resist the urge to spit directly in his face.

* * *

“Oh, well _done_ ,” Abe says, clapping her hands. “He offered you a place on the negotiating committee?”

“He said he’d advocate for me, whatever that means,” you grumble, taking a sip of tea. _Damn_ Fukuda and his weirdly excellent tea-making skills. “Why, do you think he’ll actually follow through?”

“Hell yeah,” Fukuda drawls, leaning back and putting his feet up on Nakai’s pristine coffee table, seemingly oblivious to her murderous glare. “He thinks everyone hates you and that he’s your only friend. Our man _gets off_ on that. He’ll do anything for his little protégé.”

“Ew!” you complain, hurling one of Nakai’s plushies at his head. “Do you have to be so fucking vile all the time?”

“ _Hey_ ,” Nakai warns, scooping the plushie off the ground and cradling it protectively.

“Yes, he does,” Yoshioka says in resignation. He reaches over and pinches Fukuda’s ear, hard. “This asshole has no off-switch.”

“Ooh, ouch, Kou-chan~” Fukuda says, although he sounds more amused than deterred. “No, but I have an on-switch, and you’re grabbing it right now~”

“Jesus,” Yoshioka mutters, releasing Fukuda and giving him another whack upside the head for good measure. “What would your boyfriend say, huh, you disgusting flirt?”

You blink. “Boyfriend?”

Fukuda rolls his eyes at you. “Yes, _boyfriend_. I thought you foreigners were supposed to be progressive.”

“I’m just surprised you managed to trick someone into dating you, you sick little troll.”

“Well, if a nasty goblin like you can con her way into netting a billionaire with a fine ass-”

“Enough, you two!” Nakai cuts in, whumping you both with her plushie. “Can you just give it a rest for ten seconds!”

“Fukuda-kun’s boyfriend is really nice,” Hasegawa muses. “Like, _really_ nice. He’s cute and dresses well, too. I think we were all surprised.”

Abe sighs and massages her temples. “Back on topic, the lot of you. So I say we keep this going until you officially accept the negotiating commitee position.”

“Er, _what?_ ”

“You should accept it,” Yoshioka says firmly. “We’ve been trying to get someone under forty on that committee for _years_. This is an opportunity to get something good out of the whole situation.”

“But I don’t know the first thing about Japanese union contract negotiations,” you protest.

“Oh, stop whining. We’ll teach you everything you need to know,” Nakai huffs impatiently. “The union rep is a complete idiot and the rest of the committee wouldn’t know negotiation tactics if it hit them in the face, so the bar isn’t really that high.”

“Oh my god,” Hasegawa sighs dreamily, clasping her hands in front of her, “maybe we’ll finally be able to get a better deal on extended benefits-”

“Off track,” Fukuda says brusquely, clapping his hands together, like he hasn’t caused nearly every major conversational derailment since this whole thing started. “So now that Arima thinks you’ve crawled up his ass, I think it’s time for phase two, ne?”

You nod hesitantly. You’re a little nervous for phase two.

“Have you thought of anything we could use?” Abe prompts gently.

The gist of phase two is for someone to secretly tip off Arima and give him blackmail material on you. Nakai’s logic is that having information on you will make him feel emboldened, and he’ll be less careful because he thinks he has insurance in case things go wrong.

“Um...” you fidget a little in your seat and fold your hands into your lap. “Actually, there’s something I should tell you all.”

“No,” Fukuda gasps, “you’re into those really nasty drawings online of people eating each other whole? _I should have known!_ ”

“Fukuda!” Nakai yells. “I swear to God I will throw you out this fucking window and tell the cops you killed yourself from the shame of having just said that-”

Yoshioka hits Fukuda with a throw pillow so hard it knocks him back on the couch, then pretends to smother him convincingly enough you wonder if it actually might not be a joke. You watch impassively, not particularly inclined to intervene either way.

“She’s trusting us and trying to be vulnerable with us,” Abe says, picking up another pillow and whacking them each in turn. “Would! You! Two! Just! Stop!”

Nakai joins in, hitting them both with her plushie, and then Hasegawa hands you another plushie and you all blow off steam for a while by abusing Fukuda until he’s curled up on the floor and possibly crying a little.

“You guys are so fucking mean,” Fukuda sniffles pathetically.

Yoshioka sits back on the couch but plants both of his feet on Fukuda’s back, pinning him to the floor. “Continue,” he says calmly.

“Oh, right.” You clear your throat. “Um....so I didn’t exactly meet Seto at the Christmas reception.”

“I knew that,” Fukuda says from the floor. “I saw you two at his office, remember? And then your creepy vampire of a boyfriend gaslit me and got me in trouble in front of everyone.”

“You were asking for it,” Hasegawa says mildly.

“Anyways, we were just friends then,” you continue, “but...”

“I have no idea why you’re so paranoid about Kaiba-shachou,” Abe says. “Who cares when you two started dating? Everyone knows you won the audition on your own merits. Having an extra connection to a famous donor is just a bonus in the administration’s eyes. Literally no one is judging you for that.”

“She’s right,” Nakai adds. “That’s not scandalous at all, that’s just you being prissy about your own pride. God, you’re so lame.”

“We could make up something scandalous,” Hasegawa suggests excitedly, hugging a plushie to her chest.

“No!” Nakai lectures. “I swear to God, what would you idiots do without me? If we use some real information on her, then everyone will assume it was a lie we made up to trap Arima and no one will investigate further. It’s an opportunity to wipe something off your slate.”

You consider that. “Huh. I guess that makes sense.”

“You scare the hell out of me, you know that?” Yoshioka says to Nakai, sighing and scrubbing his hand across his face.

Nakai smiles, a little ferally.

“Of course,” Abe cuts in, ever the voice of reason, “that would hinge on her trusting all of us enough to give us information like that.”

You open your mouth, but Nakai puts a finger up. “Don’t answer now,” she says. “Go away and think about it. If we’re going to do this, you have to be committed. Make your decision now and don’t chicken out later.”

The look on her face makes it very clear that there will be consequences for chickening out later, so you agree to give it extremely careful consideration.

* * *

“I don’t-”

“I know,” you cut Seto off, “you don’t like it.”

“I like it,” Anzu chimes in, not looking up from the cheery little puzzle game she’s playing on her phone. You, Seto, Anzu and Honda are hanging out at the Kame Game shop, waiting for Yuugi and Jounouchi to get off work and join you.

“Man,” Honda sighs from where he’s sprawled out on the couch, “you arts people are so fuckin’ scary. It’s like one of those old American gangster movies. Are you gonna put a horse head in Arima’s bed next?”

You mull that over. “Where would I get a horse head?”

“From a horse, stupid,” Seto says. “There are riding clubs in Tokyo. Use your head, I’m sure you can figure it out.”

“Okay, but look at me. Do I look capable of killing a horse and sawing its head off?”

“If you’re capable of shooting a gun, you can kill a horse-”

“No!” Honda shrieks, loudly enough that it makes everyone jump. “Stop speculating on horse murder! Get back on topic!”

“You were the one that brought up horse murder,” Anzu says mildly, still focused on her game.

“Uh...” You all glance towards the doorway, where Yuugi and Jounouchi are standing, looking totally nonplussed.

Jounouchi makes you repeat the entire story again, grilling you every two sentences with questions like _what the hell is a negotiating committee_ and _are you sure your friend Nakai ain’t affiliated with the actual yakuza_ until he’s satisfied with his understanding of the situation.

“Wow,” Yuugi says as he brings in a tray of snacks. “That’s...intense.”

“Are you gonna do it?” Anzu asks.

You bite your lip. “I dunno. Do I really have a choice, if we want to take down Arima?”

“Yes,” Seto cuts in, “you can just let me handle it, like I’ve been asking you to since this whole harebrained scheme started.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “No. No! I don’t even know what you handling it would _mean_. I don’t _want_ to know.”

“How about a compromise?” Honda suggests. “You give your orchestra buddies some dirt on you, and if anyone betrays you or the situation gets out of hand, then you unleash Kaiba and he can go fuckin’ nuclear on them all.”

You and Seto look at each other, then shrug in unison. “Sounds good to me,” you say, as Seto nods.

“So what collateral are you gonna give them?” Jounouchi asks. “Got any good gossip handy?”

You frown. “Um...I don’t really know what kinds of things would be career-ending in Japan.”

“Well, you’re held to different standards, because you’re a foreigner,” Yuugi points out reasonably. “You’ll get a little extra leeway. If you’re comfortable, why don’t you tell us what you have in mind?”

“Okay,” you say with a shrug, then flop onto your back and stare at the ceiling for a moment.

“Come on,” Anzu teases. “I’m sure even an adorable over-achiever like you must have something.”

“Ah, man,” you sigh. “That’s not the problem. I need help narrowing it down. Uh...I’m a bastard born to an unmarried teenage mom? My dad runs weird scams out of his garage and has been to jail...I dunno, I think at least four times? I have five half-siblings all with different mothers?” You pause, thinking. “My mom moved a bunch of times to avoid CPS. I’m not sure if that’s, like, _illegal_ , but definitely shady.”

There’s a long silence.

Finally, Jounouchi lets out a low whistle. “You, uh, you got a lot to choose from, kid.”

“Depends what kind of scams your dad runs,” Honda says. “But I don’t necessarily think you have to use him. I think the five half-siblings and you being born to a teen mother out of wedlock are probably good enough.”

You’re grateful that everyone picks up on your cues and treats the revelations as casually as you had made them, but you’re also not surprised - your friends are clearly used to strange things and aren’t the types to be easily ruffled. It’s really nice, actually.

After a while, the conversation naturally winds down, and an odd sort of silence falls over the group.

“So, are you going to tell us why you summoned us here?” Seto says impatiently.

The reason you’re gathered, after all, is because Yuugi had texted everyone asking if you could all get together and talk about something.

“Ah,” Yuugi says, suddenly looking nervous. He shifts in his chair uncomfortably. “Yes. Well.”

“Out with it,” Seto orders, pinning Yuugi with a glare.

Anzu steps in to save Yuugi. “Well...Kaiba-kun, we were thinking maybe...it’s time to tell her.”

When Seto doesn’t respond, Anzu presses on. “You know, about-”

“ _Fuck you,_ ” Seto interrupts, so suddenly and loudly that it startles you. “What the hell is this? Did you just all decide this without my input and then set up a fucking _ambush_ -”

“Get your head out of your ass, Kaiba,” Jounouchi says hotly. “She’s our friend too. We could’ve just told her without saying anything to you. But we wanted to give you the choice-”

“And what if I say no?” Seto demands. He’s so angry that his face has gone rather pale. You feel your stomach churn - you really don’t like wherever this is going.

“If you don’t want to, Kaiba-kun,” Anzu says, holding her hands up placatingly, “you can just leave. It’s okay. No one’s going to force you-”

“But you’ll tell her anyways, just without me there,” Seto snaps.

“No!” Honda cuts in with an exasperated sigh. “You paranoid motherfucker. If you say no, we’ll respect your wishes and no one will say anything until you’re ready to tell her yourself.”

“If your intentions were so noble,” Seto says disdainfully, “then why the fuck did you trick me into coming here without talking to me about it first?”

“Because you’re impossible to talk to and you would have just avoided the topic,” Anzu says, folding her arms and giving him a firm stare.

You think you know what this is about, but you can only stare in mute silence, twisting your hands nervously in your lap. You really, really wish they would’ve gotten the fighting out of the way without you there, but a part of you also knows that their extremely tight-knit friend group has somehow miraculously expanded to include you and that means you get to see all the less-than-perfect moments, too.

“You’re right, I would have,” Seto says angrily. “I just don’t see why it’s so fucking necessary to rehash this _over and over_ again-”

“ _Because other people deal with grief differently than you do!_ ” Jounouchi yells, getting off the couch and clenching his fists as he takes a step towards Seto. “God, you are _so_ fucking selfish, you know that? You don’t think we miss him too? Just because not everyone wants to shove it down and pretend it didn’t happen-”

“ _Then talk to each other about it and leave me out of it!_ ” Seto roars, standing up and towering over Jounouchi.

“Woah, woah, woah,” you squeak, standing up too and grabbing the back of Seto’s sweater as Yuugi wraps his arms around Jounouchi’s waist and tugs him backwards. “Let’s, um...let’s just take a step back...”

“We have been talking to each other,” Honda says evenly, apparently unaffected by the fisticuffs that nearly occurred right in front of him. “For years. But you’re our friend too, Kaiba. You were just as important to him as the rest of us were. Talking about it isn’t the same without you, man.”

You manage to guide Seto back into a sitting position, and then take his hand firmly in yours. He tries to yank his hand away but you hold on for dear life. You know him well enough now to understand that pulling away is one of his automatic instincts, and not necessarily what he wants or needs.

“Kaiba-kun,” Anzu says gently, moving to sit on his other side and patting his arm. Seto tenses up, but doesn’t make a move to escape this time. “After...after everything, we were all so worried about you. You wouldn’t let us help, but...who could possibly understand better? I think that’s why you never pushed Yuugi away. Isn’t it? Because on some level, you knew that he understood how you were feeling.”

“I’m fine now,” Seto grits out, his hand gripping yours so tightly it hurts a little.

“But you almost weren’t,” Yuugi says, very quietly.

A heavy silence falls over the room. Your heart is pounding. Whatever Yuugi means, you’re certain it’s not good.

“Well?” Seto says tersely to you. “You wanted to know, didn’t you? About Atem.”

It’s the first time you’ve heard him say the name out loud, and it seems like it genuinely pains him. You look around at everyone nervously. “I want to know whatever you’re comfortable telling me,” you admit, “but not because I’m curious. I just want to understand everyone better. Because I really care about all of you.”

Another long pause, and then Seto slumps a little and pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Fine,” he mutters. “Whatever.”

“No, not _whatever_ ,” Anzu protests. “Not unless you’re really okay with it, Kaiba-kun.”

“If I weren’t, do you think I’d still be in this room?” Seto snaps.

“Okay,” Honda says after a tense moment. He looks at you. “You ready for this?”

“Yeah,” you manage. “I’m ready.”

Until now, Yuugi had been mostly silent, staring at his lap as the argument raged on around him. But now everyone’s attention shifts towards him - so automatically, so instinctively that you get the feeling that Yuugi is somehow central to this whole story.

Yuugi takes a deep breath, then lets it out as a quiet sigh.

“So,” he begins, “everything started when my grandfather brought me a souvenir - this artifact that he’d found on a dig in Egypt...”

* * *

“Are you all right?” Seto says. His voice is curiously flat and toneless.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. All you can focus on is the rhythmic _thump-whirr thump-whirr_ of his windshield wipers clearing the rain away, and the golden-orange glow cast by the streetlights as Seto’s car passes them by.

It’s four in the morning. It had taken that long to get the whole story out, and you’re sure they were glossing things over left and right for your sake.

Sometime early on in the process, Seto had pulled you into his lap - like some kind of human shield between himself and the narrative unfolding in front of him - and he’d held you so tightly it had bordered on uncomfortable. In the end you were glad for it.

It’s not like you’d thought your friends were liars or had a mass hallucination or something, but watching the archival Battle City footage on Yuugi’s computer had really driven the entire thing home for you. You don’t know if you’ll ever be able to watch a Duel again without remembering the things you saw.

“Would you say something?” Seto demands sharply.

You somehow understand that the sharpness is anxiety and not a reprimand, so you do your best to answer.

“I, um...” you swallow, trying to wet your parched throat. “I remember the whole DOMA thing. It was on the news all over the world. I didn’t...I didn’t really believe the explanation that was given, in the end, about it being malfunctioning hologram tech.”

“Plenty of people didn’t,” Seto says. “But the alternative was the supernatural, and no one really _wanted_ that to be the case, so they accepted what they were given.”

You’re aware that a few cults had popped up over the years loudly vouching for the supernatural explanation, but you take his point. People are generally eager to make sense of things - to make them fit.

You lapse back into silence. You desperately want to think about it - to start processing even a shred of the story - but you can’t seem to grab hold of anything in your brain. Sharp-edged words and images dance around your mind, floating elusively just out of your grasp. Sweet, kind Bakura, possessed by an unspeakable evil; Mai, comatose, while Shizuka held silent vigil; Yuugi and Jounouchi staring at each other across a pier while a timer ticked away the seconds; soulless bodies chained in cells underground- _Seto and Mokuba’s_ -

A sob rips out of your chest and you bury your face in your hands. You furiously force the tears back, taking deep breaths to steady yourself. Seto is silent and impassive beside you, both hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles have turned white.

By the time he pulls up in front of your apartment, you’ve managed to wrestle a sense of composure back onto your face. Seto parks, and the two of you sit mutely for a moment, staring straight ahead.

“Seto,” you start.

“Can I come in?” he says at the same time. He clears his throat. “Unless you don’t want-”

“Yes,” you interrupt, taking his hand. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

Neither of you can sleep for a long time; you just lie there on the bed, fully-clothed and holding on to each other for dear life. Five a.m. rolls by, then six; you both call in sick to work, and finally, around seven in the morning, you manage to drift off together into restless dreams.

* * *

You know there’s more to tell, and you know that Seto has to be the one to tell you, but you have enough to wrap your head around for now. You spend the day together watching utterly trash TV and picking at the remnants of your fridge, taking turns cuddling Egg until he gets fed up with both of you and goes into hiding on top of the bookshelf.

Both of you sleep a little more throughout the day. Seto catches a couple hours with his head pillowed in your lap and your hands running through his hair, and you manage a nap while he holds you close against his chest.

You dream about your mom again, and you dream about a man that looks like Yuugi but isn’t quite.

“Hey,” Seto murmurs, tucking back the strands of hair at your temple and brushing a feather-light kiss against your forehead. “Wake up.”

You struggle the last bit of the way into wakefulness, and bring your fingers up to your cheeks, surprised to feel the wetness there.

“What were you dreaming about?” Seto says, wiping your tears with the pad of his thumb.

You take a shaky breath. “Mom....mom used to-” your voice cracks, so you start again. “She really liked Brahms,” you say. “She always used to hum those songs around the house - I - I don’t know why I dreamed about her. And Atem was there, too.” You feel confused, disoriented; you can’t make sense of everything rattling around your skull. You look up at Seto. “I’m so sorry you lost him,” you say.

Seto rests his cheek against the top of your head. He’s quiet for a moment.

“Me too,” he says, so softly you almost don’t catch it.

* * *

You both decide to go back to work the next day, but it takes a long time to say goodbye. You stand together in your doorway with your arms around each other for what feels like an hour, even though in reality it’s probably only a few minutes.

“It’s not the weekend yet, but...”

“I can come stay over tonight.”

Seto gives you a tight squeeze and kisses the top of your head, and then he’s out the door. Once he’s out of sight down the stairs, you walk over to the window and watch until his car pulls away and turns at the end of the street.

Then you take a cold shower, to try and jolt your brain into gear. You eat breakfast for once. You even get dressed in one of your nicest sundresses, just for a little extra boost in confidence.

Before you head out the door with your violin slung over your shoulder, you pull out your phone and send two texts, to two very different group chats:

 _Love you guys. Thank you for telling me_ , and

_I’ll do it. I’m in._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's out there! Atem. Although not the entire story...Seto still has a little more to tell on his own. Next chapter we'll be going a little further into the aftershocks of learning the truth about the events of the series, and also a little more into the orchestra's plot to dethrone Arima ಠ⌣ಠ
> 
> I drew some new art for this series! [Mokuba and Egg](https://sempect.tumblr.com/post/645308769284292608/we-drew-one-kaiba-bro-with-the-cat-and-nowwe). Thank you a million to my darlings AAurion and EmilyMaeBelle for the idea <3 I still have so many great art suggestions to work through from all of you in the comments!!
> 
>  **Music mentioned in this chapter:**  
>  You guys all know Vivaldi's Four Seasons, lol. But check out [Max Richter's version of the first movement](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oXXm0ppMvT0)...it's so mellow and pretty...<3
> 
>  **Orchestral terms & tidbits:**  
> 1\. _Orchestra negotations_ are conducted (hehe) by a combination of musicians, the board, union reps, and administrative staff who all get together and negotiate the musicians' contract. This can be done every year, every other year, every five years - the negotiating period is determined in the contract itself. In these negotiations they figure out things like hours, pay, number of services, even stuff like the dress code and technical requirements for each concert. Usually the president of the administration and the artistic director/production manager are involved in negotiations, and then the board and the musicians will each form their own _negotiating committees_ to represent those factions at the table. 
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you all for your support and insights and just general amazingness. I appreciate each and every one of you so much!! <3


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the wait, darlings - but I hope the hella long chapter makes up for it (⌒▽⌒)♡

“So...how are you doing?” Mokuba reaches over to dig his spoon into your ice cream.

You take a bite of his in return and think about that for a moment. Suddenly, you notice someone outside the ice cream shop, very conspicuously taking pictures with a cell phone.

“Oh, come _on_ ,” you mutter.

“Sorry,” Mokuba says sheepishly. “I know it’s annoying.”

“No, don’t apologize!” you insist, feeling ashamed for your moment of petulance. “I know you’ve been working really hard to keep the media off my ass. Besides, it could be worse - we could be in America. The occasional douche with a cellphone is nothing.”

“God,” Mokuba laughs. “Can you imagine? America is so scary. It’s literally legal to stalk people as long as you have a nice camera and can find someone willing to pay a lot of money for the pictures.”

You’d never thought about it that way. That is kind of terrifying.

“The headlines are all so crazy too,” Mokuba continues. “They’re always like - extrapolating from the person’s facial expression to create a story. Oh, look! This couple hates each other now because the paparazzo caught them in the thirty seconds where they weren’t smiling.”

“Seto and I would be doomed,” you say with a grin.

“Your poor relationship. Over before it had even begun, all ‘cause nii-sama has the scariest resting bitch-face in the eastern hemisphere.”

“I dare you to say that to him in person.”

“I do. All the time.”

You don’t doubt him on that.

“Hey,” Mokuba prods. “Answer my question. How are you doing? You okay?”

You stall by taking an excessively large bite of ice-cream. Mokuba raises an eyebrow, but lets it slide.

“Well,” you say, once you’ve worked your way through it. “I don’t know. I guess just like...how you’d expect, after learning that magic is real and a bunch of your friends got possessed by ghosts and everyone’s been abducted and traumatized and-” you sigh, pillowing your head on your arms. “Fuck. Are _you_ okay?”

“Yeah,” Mokuba says with a shrug. “Seto made me go to therapy. I was mad at the time and I didn’t feel like I needed it, but in the end I’m glad I went.”

You consider that. “Did you tell the therapist about all the magic and ghosts and stuff?”

“Nah,” Mokuba laughs. “Just, you know, the multiple abductions, which were in the news anyways. I’ve got Seto and Yuugi and Jou and everyone to talk to about the supernatural parts.”

“The whole thing makes me mad,” you admit. “Where the fuck were the adults? Who was letting you guys run around dueling cultists to the death, and...and going alone to Pegasus’ creepy Neverland island, and... _Egypt_ , for fuck’s sakes...”

“As you know, this friend group doesn’t have a great track record with involved parents,” Mokuba says wryly, “you included.”

That is true. You sigh. “How’s Seto doing?”

“He’s worried about you.”

“Eh?” you blink. “Why?”

“Dumbass,” Mokuba says, rolling his eyes at you. “Because you just had your entire worldview upended?”

“I wouldn’t call it _upended_ ,” you muse, taking another spoonful of Mokuba’s ice cream. “I mean, I’ve always kind of secretly believed that ghosts are real...and, like, astrology and stuff...”

Mokuba grins. “You are really something else, you know that? Also, don’t tell Seto you believe in astrology, he might literally have an aneurysm.”

You sit up straight and salute him, and then both of you descend into laughter.

* * *

Seto is sitting across from you in his office, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his chin resting in one hand. It’s a posture that suggests he’ll be comfortable waiting for quite a while.

You try not to squirm in your chair like a little kid.

Seto continues to stare at you. He says your name, once, in a stern-but-tolerant sort of way.

“Fuck,” you mutter, crossing your arms uncomfortably and looking anywhere other than him. “Can we not do this?”

“We’re not going anywhere until you talk.”

You look at the ceiling, and then at his very nice potted fern. You wonder who takes care of it. Ishida? Well, if it’s Ishida, she’s done a good job - it looks healthy and vibrant. Maybe she even uses fertilizer every now and again.

You glance back at Seto. He hasn’t moved yet, and now there are no more interesting things in his office to distract yourself with. Your boyfriend is nothing if not a committed minimalist.

“I’m, um....” you glare at your hands, which are folded in your lap. “I’m kind of tired.”

“And?”

“And my stomach hurts.”

“Tell me why that is.”

It is genuinely hard to fight the urge to hurtle out of your seat and make a break for the office door. You muse briefly on how far you could make it before he catches you. Probably about three steps. His stride length is practically double yours.

“Because,” you sigh, turning your glare up at the ceiling again, “I kind of overdid it this week with the practicing and forgot to eat regular meals and now God is punishing me for it.”

“Not God,” Seto says evenly, “but maybe your multiple underlying health conditions.”

“Aaaggghh,” you groan, burying your face in your hands. “I’m _sorry_. I forgot to eat a couple of times, and I can’t take the iron supplements on an empty stomach, but then forgetting to take them made me really tired and distracted and I forgot about eating again, and...”

“And why did you overdo it with the practicing this week?”

“I think you know why,” you say, frowning at Seto.

Seto shrugs. “Yes, but I want you to articulate it.”

You stick your face back in your palms and bite back another groan of frustration.

“You have to learn to tell me what you need, in your own words,” you hear his voice lecturing you. “You can’t just rely on me to read your mind all the time.”

“But you’re so good at it,” you snark back.

“Don’t test me. I can do this all day.”

You are _very_ aware that he can do this all day. Seto has a literally endless capacity for antagonizing people, especially when it’s out of love.

“I’m really stressed about the plan to take down Arima,” you mumble into your hands.

“All right,” Seto says. You hear him get up, and then you feel the warm weight of his hand on top of your head. “Let’s go. We can try that new dessert shop that just opened up on the corner.”

“Huh?” you raise your head, peering at him suspiciously. “You’re not gonna lecture me?”

“No,” Seto says, shrugging his coat on. He drapes your jacket over your shoulders and then puts an arm around you, leading out of the office.

“If I reward you for good behaviour,” he explains later, as the two of you share a generous slice of matcha-flavoured cheesecake, “you’re more likely to repeat it in the future.”

Your spoon pauses halfway to your mouth. “You’re _behaviourally conditioning_ me?!”

“Is it working?”

“...Asshole,” you mutter, then take a bite of cheesecake and try not to let it show on your face how much you’re enjoying it.

* * *

“You could at least make a _nominal_ attempt to blend with the section-”

“I seriously can’t believe you, just because I actually play the entire piece and don’t fake the difficult parts-”

Arima sits with his arms folded, one hand massaging his forehead, as you and Fukuda duke it out in his office.

Fukuda sneers at you. “Oh, do we want to talk about coasting? Let’s talk about how you’re not doing _nearly_ as many extra services and events now that you’re in with one of our wealthiest patrons-”

“Fuck you!” you snap, colour rising to your cheeks. “I’m just trying to take care of my health, you dick-”

“Let’s tone down the language,” Arima says, in his usual mild tone, but he looks extremely annoyed.

Good.

“Right, because you’re a delicate little flower,” Fukuda taunts, pretending to swoon. “Oh, woe is me, I can’t handle the rigors of this job and yet I’ve somehow decided that I’m suited for an orchestral career-”

“What the hell is your problem?” you burst out. “Why are you being so mean?”

“Because I dislike you,” Fukuda says, “and I’m tired of your shit.”

This is it. You take a deep breath and clench your fists. “You know what, Fukuda? Has it ever occurred to you that _everyone_ is tired of your shit? Like or dislike doesn’t even come into it. You’re just impossible to work with, and I don’t see how I can be expected to do it any longer.”

“Enough,” Arima cuts in. “This has devolved into personal attacks, and it’s not constructive. The two of you need to find a way to put aside your differences and set an example for the section. I _cannot_ have you bickering in front of everyone, do you understand?”

You and Fukuda glare at each other.

“I really don’t want to have to write up a report of this meeting,” Arima continues, “so I suggest that you two work on your issues, and _quickly_ , or I’ll have no choice.”

When he brings his hand up to massage his forehead again, Fukuda shoots you a saucy wink.

* * *

“ _This has devolved into personal attacks_ ,” Fukuda mocks in a sing-song voice. “Pfft. It was personal attacks from the very beginning, and he waited _that_ long to step in? What a douche.”

You grumpily poke at your ramen without answering.

“Oh, come on,” Fukuda teases. “Did I hurt your little feelings?”

“Yes!” you cry, spearing a piece of pork with your chopstick. “I meant it when I asked why you were being so mean.”

“Because you can’t act worth shit, stupid,” Fukuda says pleasantly, stealing kikurage mushrooms right out of your bowl. “I got an authentic reaction out of you, didn’t I?”

You frown at him. “Did you just make it up to upset me, or do you really believe those things?”

“Don’t be pathetic,” Fukuda says, slurping his noodles obnoxiously. “Have some confidence and decide for yourself if those things are true or not. You’re so sad.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, and steal his entire tamago egg as revenge.

* * *

While you’re in the middle of an intense make-out session with Seto, your phone starts pinging insistently.

“Don’t answer that,” he growls, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand. He’s doing something _very_ interesting with his other hand that you don’t want to stop by any means, so you don’t protest.

Your phone chirps three more times, one after the other. You glance over at it. A message from Fukuda to your group chat is on the screen:

 _(_ ง ͡ _° ͜ʖ ͡°)=/̵͇̿̿/'̿'̿̿̿ ̿ ̿̿ PHASE THREE (_ ง ͡ _° ͜ʖ ͡°)=/̵͇̿̿/'̿'̿̿̿ ̿ ̿̿_

“Oh, _shit,_ ” you say, wrestling free from Seto’s grip, grabbing your phone and scrolling up. Fukuda has texted _phase three_ a bunch of times with various increasingly stupid emojis, and Yoshioka is asking if everyone can meet for an emergency summit immediately.

“Is this how you feel when I answer work calls in bed?” Seto groans, and rolls off you.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “What do you think?”

Seto lets out a long sigh, then leans over to look at the screen. “What’s phase three?” he asks begrudgingly.

“Fukuda and I staged a massive argument the other day,” you explain, “and Arima called us in for a disciplinary meeting-”

“Wait,” Seto cuts in. “Are you really taking this so far that you’re going to have a write-up on your file?”

“Nope.” You shrug. “Arima never actually does the writeups, because he doesn’t want the HR department knowing about problems in his section. He likes having a clean record as a supervisor so he always tries to solve things quietly.”

“I see,” Seto says, giving you a scrutinizing look.

“Anyways, now that it’s been established in Arima’s eyes that my relationship with Fukuda has deteriorated basically beyond repair, Fukuda now has a motive to give Arima dirt on me. We decided to go with my mom, and half-siblings, and...generally sketchy upbringing. I managed to request my own CPS records from all the times my mom moved to avoid social services. Fukuda’s going to show those to Arima but refuse to hand them over.”

Seto frowns at that. “And you’re comfortable with those things being in everyone else’s hands?”

“Yes,” you say, shrugging, “but just in case, we had the idea to record a fake plotting session on my phone where they admit to having forged the documents. If anyone screws me I can release it to the board. If everything goes well we destroy the documents and the recording, and just frame Arima for making up the blackmail.”

Seto looks at you for a long moment, and then in an instant you’re pinned against the bed again with his lips covering yours.

“I have to go,” you protest, when the two of you come apart to breathe.

“You can be late,” he murmurs into your ear, and then he’s kissing you so fiercely that you can’t find it in you to protest anymore.

* * *

Nakai glares at you as you walk into the dessert shop. “You’re late,” she accuses.

“It was a last-minute summons!” you defend, raising your hands. “I had to bike here, and-”

“This place is two minutes from Kaiba Corporation,” Fukuda needles you. “You really had to take this long?”

“I don’t live in Seto’s office, you troglodyte-”

“Give it a rest,” Abe says, although it’s more routine by this point than anything. “We ordered you strawberry cake, hope that’s okay.”

“Yeah,” you say happily, sliding into the booth next to her.

“You’re such a sucker for cake,” Yoshioka teases. “You probably wouldn’t even have come to meet us this late if it wasn’t at a dessert shop.”

“Absolutely not,” you agree with a grin.

Once all your desserts have arrived, Nakai points her fork at Fukuda like it’s a sword. “Spill,” she orders.

“So after our little lover’s quarrel the other day, _ow_ ,” Fukuda says, as he receives a hearty kick under the table from you, “Arima came to talk to me alone, just like I thought he would. I went off on her, just totally let loose all my frustration, it felt so good~” he sighs happily. “And I told him that there was something I thought he should know for the best interest of the orchestra. He didn’t believe me at first, of course, thanks to your sexy, scary boyfriend ruining my credibility,” here Fukuda gestures at you with his spoon, “but I showed him the documents.”

“What did he say?” Hasegawa says, leaning forward intently, her parfait all but forgotten.

“He asked if he could have them, in order to follow up,” Fukuda says, rolling his eyes. “What does he take me for, an amateur? So I snatched them back and said I’d give them to him if he ever really needed them, but only if he was _extra nice_ to me~”

“That’s a smart misdirect,” you admit grudgingly. “Now he thinks you’re just trying to improve your own standing.”

“I did my part,” Fukuda says, grinning contentedly and leaning back. “Ahh, now I can relax. Now it’s your turn. Don’t fuck it up.”

* * *

_Your turn_ means it’s time to start eroding the goodwill you’ve built up with Arima, little by little. It’s a delicate balance. If you do something drastic, he’ll be suspicious.

You wear your tux to another concert.

Arima doesn’t call you on it - not yet.

You decline a donor event that he would really like you to attend, citing that you’re exhausted lately.

Arima says kindly that yes, of course he understands, he wouldn’t want you to become ill again.

You get sloppy with the Vivaldi.

Arima watches you very, very carefully.

It’s not the right time to make your final move - not quite - but it’s close.

* * *

“What was Atem like? You know...as a person?”

As he does with all of your questions, Honda considers carefully before answering. He slides back under the car he’s working on, and you hear him gently setting to work with his rubber mallet, probably repairing the dent he’s been complaining about all morning.

“Like no one else I’ve ever met,” he says from under the car.

You frown a little.

“Sorry, not helpful,” Honda laughs, reading your mind. “It’s just...to understand the guy, first you gotta realize that there’s no frame of reference for him. No archetype. Like, if it was Jou, I’d start off by saying - no-good punk with a heart of gold. For Yuugi I’d tell you - sweet shy kid with crazy hidden depths. But nothing like that really exists for Atem, ‘cause he was a king. And none of us really know what that means, nowadays.”

You think about that. “Yeah. I see.”

“Like, I want to say he was confident. And he was, in fuckin’ spades. But it wasn’t cockiness - I mean, he could be cocky as _hell,_ but that wasn’t where the confidence came from. It came from having to make huge decisions that affected a lot of people, people who believed in his divine birthright. There just wasn’t a lot of room for him to be wrong, and there was _no_ room for him to ever cave under the pressure.”

“Right,” you say slowly, trying to understand. “So you all must have trusted him.”

“With our lives,” Honda replies. “And we had to, a lot of the time. Torque wrench.”

You dutifully pass Honda the torque wrench. “This car is kind of cool - what’s it called?”

“Dude,” Honda says, sliding back out from under it just to give you an incredulous look. “This is an _Aston Martin DB5_. How do you not know that? Have you never seen a James Bond movie?”

You shrug helplessly. “No?”

“Fuck’s sakes,” Honda says as he moves back underneath. “You and me. Movie night. Sometimes it seems like I’ve seen more foreign movies than you have.”

“That’s not true,” you argue. “You just like spy movies and gangster movies, and I like horror and sci-fi. Bet you’ve never seen The Thing.”

“Whatever. You haven’t seen Goodfellas, so your opinion on everything is invalid.”

“Rude.”

Honda’s elderly dog Blanket wanders in and sits directly on your feet, panting happily up at you. You scratch her behind the ears, and then she starts wheezing pointedly. “She wants to get on your lap, but she needs help,” Honda translates. You obligingly lift her up - with great effort. She’s nearly half your size.

“You think Seto would like a car like this?” you wonder absently, burying your hands in Blanket’s soft masses of fur.

“Nah,” Honda laughs. “He’s not into vintage. Guy’s a futurist - all about the latest top-of-the-line models. Fixing his cars is always such a pain in the ass, I have to order these insane specialized parts - Why, you gonna buy him a car?”

“Oh, yes,” you say. “With my budget, I could maybe afford an entire 1998 Toyota Corolla. He could use it in KaibaCorp demolition tests.”

“Don’t knock the Corolla, man. Work of art, I tell you.”

It never ceases to amuse you that Honda’s built up such an impressive reputation that obscenely rich people will let him work on their treasured vintage cars, but he rhapsodizes with equal poetic fervour about Lamborghinis and beat-up college student starter vehicles.

“Anyways,” Honda says. “Atem. So he’s this guy you just can’t help but trust, right? And that alone could’ve made him - you know. It could’ve gone to his head, made him all the worst stereotypes of a king. But it didn’t. He had this really unassailable sense of right and wrong, but the crazy thing is that he was always re-evaluating, looking to the rest of us for input. Atem understood where his weak spots were, he _really_ understood, and whenever he thought he was getting too hard-headed or righteous Yuugi was always there to guide him back in a softer direction. Those two really...” Honda trails off. “But it wasn’t like Atem only listened to Yuugi. Just...imagine what it’s like to be sitting across from this guy - Pharaoh of Egypt, regal as fuck, sitting in a Burger World booth like the thing’s a damn throne - and over burgers, he asks you if you think divine birthright really matters in the end if the result is tyranny.”

“Woah,” you breathe. “What did you say?”

“God,” Honda laughed, “I had no fuckin’ _idea_ what to say. I wanted to tell him to go back into his freaky soul labyrinth and ask Yuugi. But I also really didn’t want to let him down, so I kinda - I fumbled through this stupid half-coherent answer - and he just listened carefully the whole time, like I was saying something real valuable. And at the end he thanked me sincerely for it. Fuckin’ surreal, I tell you.”

“I can’t imagine what it was like to lose someone like that,” you admit. “It seems like it would’ve been...earthshaking, I guess.”

Honda is silent for a long moment. You can hear him making small adjustments with his screwdriver.

“That’s the perfect word for it, actually,” he says finally. “After he left it felt like we were all missing something foundational.”

“How did Yuugi cope with it?” you ask hesitantly.

Honda sighs. “Well...Yuugi always _knew_. Even though he was closest to Atem - _because_ he was closest to Atem, actually - he really understood what staying would’ve meant for both of them. This kind of half-life where neither could ever really be his own person. He knew Atem was on borrowed time, and they worked through a lot of that together. But...”

Honda slides out from under the car and sits up, wiping a rag across his forehead and leaving a smear of grease. “You gotta understand - we all loved Atem, but Yuugi _loved_ him. You know? It was the kind of love you only feel once in a lifetime. That’s not to downplay what he and Jou have now, not at all. It’s just different. Yuugi’s...he’s made his peace with it. He knows that wherever Atem is, he’s happy, and that’s got to be enough for him. There was only one Atem, but there’s also only one Jou, and only one of them is the way forward to the rest of his life.”

You feel a sudden compulsion to bury your face in Blanket’s fur. “Yeah,” you say, muffled by her warm back. You know what he’s saying - what he’s _really_ saying, both on the surface and underneath.

Honda reaches out and gently squeezes your ankle, just for a second, before retreating back under the car and setting to work again.

* * *

“You can do this, you can do this,” you chant, staring at yourself in the mirror and clenching your fists.

Egg miaows loudly. You choose to take it as encouragement, and not as an indicator that his food dish is empty.

“Just...just go in there, and punch everyone in the face,” you tell yourself. “Metaphorically. With your words.”

Egg hops up on the countertop, looks you in the eye, and pushes your tube of mascara directly off the edge.

“I know your food dish is empty,” you tell him solemnly. “Life is hard sometimes, Egg. You’re on a diet, and I have to go to this absurdly fancy event and try not to make a jackass of myself. Our problems are equivalent, so let’s have a little empathy for each other instead, yeah?”

You sigh, staring at the mirror again. You know that logically, you look nice. It’s just that having Seto and Mokuba’s stylist work on your hair and makeup isn’t the same as having Anzu do it, because Anzu talks you down out of your nerves the entire time while Honda makes dumb jokes in the background. Seto’s stylist, on the other hand, is a very nice but very professional man who would never say something like _you show those bougie bitches who’s boss_ to cheer you up.

“Maybe I should just not talk at all,” you say to Egg miserably. “That way there’s no chance of saying something stupid, right? I just have no idea what to say to rich people when they don’t care about classical music. That is my _only_ point of commonality with them, and now it’s gone. These are rich _tech_ people. It’s like an alien species.”

“Thanks,” Seto says dryly from behind you.

“You-” you choke out. “How long have you-”

“Please don’t punch anyone in the face, physically or metaphorically,” Seto says, but his lips are quirked up in amusement. “If you really feel like anyone needs punching, alert me and I’ll take care of it.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “You don’t think I’m capable of doing my own punching?”

“You’re a violinist,” Seto points out. “It’s very important that you don’t hurt your hands. Now are you going to put your dress on, or are you attending in that?”

 _That_ is your treasured Manchester United F.C. hoodie, a.k.a. your lucky hoodie, which you are wearing right now to try and hype yourself up. “I mean...can I just go in this?”

“Only if I can show up to your next donor event in a Duel Monsters promotional giveaway t-shirt.”

You consider this trade very carefully for a long moment, then wander off dejectedly to find your dress.

“I don’t know what the big deal is,” Seto says, as you fidget nervously in the car on the ride over. “You do events like this all the time.”

“I do not,” you protest. “A donor appreciation event for a midsize orchestra isn’t the same thing as a launch event for nanotechnology that’s literally going to revolutionize the medical field. Seto. There are going to be scientists from all over the world at this thing.”

“I’m aware.”

“And everyone there’s going to be really smart.”

“One would hope.”

“Are you _sure_ you don’t want to just leave me on the curb and go with Mokuba?”

Seto sighs and rolls his eyes. “We’ve been over this. Yuugi is Mokuba’s plus-one, since he was really interested in the event but not involved enough in the project to get his own invite. You are my plus-one, since you’re my girlfriend and I want to go with you.”

“Okay,” you say, taking a deep breath and clenching your fists. “Yup. That’s right.”

Seto’s expression softens a little. “You really are nervous, aren’t you?”

You are _extremely_ nervous. You’re terrified that you’re going to make a fool of yourself - or worse, embarrass Seto - in front of these genius STEM people, and your wildly expensive couture dress feels like it’s wearing you rather than the other way around. But Seto always shows up for you, and now it’s time for you to show up for him.

“No,” you lie boldly. “Panic over. It’s cool. I’m ready. Just gotta act like I belong, right?”

Seto looks like he doesn’t quite believe you, but he drops it for the time being; instead he helps you out of the car with a gentle hand on your back. “You belong anywhere I am,” he murmurs into your ear, just before the camera flashes start going off.

* * *

“Put me down.”

“Prove you can walk in a straight line.”

“The burden of proof rests on...uh...”

“The drunk idiot demanding to be put down.”

“That doesn’t sound right...” You glare up at Seto. He just smirks back, adjusting you in his arms, as the elevator door into the penthouse opens.

“I’m not going to bed,” you insist, as Seto carries you towards his bedroom. Your stuff has gradually migrated in there over the course of your relationship, and the charade of the guest bedroom has been mostly given up. “I’m not tired.”

“I can see that,” Seto says, raising his eyebrow. “What are you going to do, then?”

“Let’s play a game.”

“No. I’m going to win and then you’re going to be upset.”

“Not a video game,” you protest. He sets you gently on the bed. “A drinking game.”

“Oh, I think you’ve had quite enough to drink,” Seto says. You struggle to reach the clasp on the back of your gown. “Do you need help with that?”

“Absolutely not,” you say, scandalized. You struggle for about five more seconds. “Um. Yes.”

“Anyways,” you continue, as Seto makes quick work of the clasp, “I’m going out there,” you point to the living room, “to watch Birdemic, and you can join me or you can just sit in bed by yourself and wish you were watching Birdemic with me.”

“Counter-offer: we do literally _anything_ other than watch whatever the hell Birdemic is.”

You grin up at him. “Deal!”

“You know, you’re a terrible negotiator,” Seto says later, as he pours himself a scotch. You’re curled up on the couch, having swapped your fancy dress for pyjama shorts and an oversized KaibaCorp t-shirt. Seto is still in his formalwear sans jacket, since he is apparently just as comfortable in a dress shirt as he is in anything else. It’s one of those qualities of his that leaves you in awe.

“No I’m not,” you argue, flapping a dismissive hand at him. “I didn’t want to go to bed, and I’m not in bed. I won.”

“Think bigger,” Seto lectures. “You opened big by proposing what Google tells me is the worst film of all time. It was a good start. Then you blew your lead by not taking advantage of the vague terms of my counter-offer.”

“Oh.” You consider that. “Can we play Minecraft?”

“No,” Seto says. “Negotiations are closed.”

“God,” you sigh, flopping backwards. “Business is tough. No wonder you’re all so angry all the time.”

“So, how was the event? As scary as you thought?” Seto says, joining you on the couch as he sips at his tumbler of scotch. You take a minute to admire him. He looks _so_ cool, like a picture from a men’s magazine.

“No,” you say at last. “It got way easier once I realized it was basically just a room full of nerds.”

Caught off-guard, Seto snorts into his drink. “What tipped you off?” he asks, once he’s recovered a bit.

“Well, you were talking to this lady about - uh - carbium selenide-”

“ _Cadmium_ selenide-” he corrects.

“Yeah, whatever, and you were both just _so_ excited to be talking about cells-”

“It’s an inorganic compound-”

“It was really cute,” you finish, over Seto’s pedantry. “And! I got to see you make a speech. You’re an amazing public speaker, you looked _incredible_ up there-”

“Will you just calm down?” Seto says gruffly, but there’s a pink tinge to his cheeks. “You need to learn to hold your liquor.”

“Not my fault Mokuba kept handing me drinks,” you counter.

Seto sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ll be having a talk with him whenever he gets home. Which may not be until tomorrow.”

“Aw, it’s fine, he knows my limits. Hey,” you fret, “did I embarrass you or something?”

“No! No. You were...adorable, and charming, and...it’s not about that,” Seto insists, finishing his drink and then leaning over you, pinning you to the couch cushions with a hand on either side of your head. “You just need to be more careful. What if someone had walked off with you?”

You laugh in earnest at that. “What? Who’s gonna walk off with me at a nanotech launch party? You think I couldn’t hold my own against one of those nerds?”

“Hey,” Seto says sternly. “I’m being serious. Listen to me.”

“So am I,” you reply sweetly, turning your head to kiss his wrist. “I always feel safe when you’re around. I know you’d never let anything happen to me. You worry too much.”

“Of course I worry,” Seto argues. “You compulsively downplay everything. I practically have to torture you to get anything out of you. We haven’t even talked about your feelings after...that talk we had, with everyone.”

“I was kinda waiting for you to talk about it,” you admit. “I didn’t want to push you. I feel okay, though.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Excuse me?”

“I overheard you venting to Egg about it earlier this week.”

You frown. “You eavesdropped on us?”

“First of all, there is no _us_ because Egg wasn’t _replying_ to you, and second, I did not _eavesdrop_. I was just passing by.”

“Okay,” you admit, “maybe it’s all been, um, a little confusing. But it’s no-”

“Do _not_ tell me it’s no big deal,” Seto interrupts. “Listen. If you need to talk to the cat to process what you’re feeling, that’s... _fine_ ,” he says, with great effort, “but I would hope you feel you can talk to me as well. It would disturb anyone in their right mind to learn about supernatural-”

“Would you quit interrupting me!” you say in exasperation, finally getting one of your arms free from his grip. “Like, okay, yes, it was a lot to take in,” you try and explain, gesturing wildly. “And of course I’m really sad for everyone, and it’s just...it was so much for all of you to go through, and you were all so young...”

Tears are welling up in your eyes, to your total surprise. “Fine, you were right,” you sniffle. “Maybe it affected me more than I thought.”

“Wait,” Seto cuts in, still looking nonplussed. “You’re _sad_ about it?”

You wipe at your eyes aggressively. “Why is that surprising?”

“Aren’t you...concerned about the implications of the Sennen items, or shadow magic, or...reincarnation, or...”

“Um,” you say, sniffling pathetically, “no?”

Seto rolls off you, slumps over and puts his face in his hands. “Christ,” he sighs. “What am I going to do with you?”

“You’re going to come back here and tell me how _you’re_ feeling.”

“Am I, now,” Seto mutters.

“ _Yes_ ,” you insist. “You wanna play that game? You’ve been weird lately, too. You think I didn’t notice that you’ve been going to the dojo nearly every day? Any more than three times a week is a stress thing for you. And what about the fact that you didn’t even reply to Elon Musk’s ignorant, stupid-ass tweet about Solid Vision-”

“All _right,_ ” Seto sighs, aggrieved. “ _Fine._ It was...slightly difficult, to relive it all.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” you venture.

“Right now?”

You shrug. “I mean, sometimes it’s easier to talk about this stuff a few drinks in.”

“I...” Seto trails off, which is unusual for him. “I do, yes.”

You study his uncomfortable expression. “Hey, I’ve got an idea,” you say. “Be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

You return a minute later with two more tumblers of scotch. “For courage. Now for part two. Sit on the floor, with your back to me.”

“What?”

“It’s...” you flush a little. “This thing I’d do with one of my exes. It’s how she used to get me to talk about stuff. Talking can be easier when you don’t have to look at each other.”

“She sounds nice,” Seto says, obediently facing away from you and sitting down cross-legged.

“She was. We were all kinds of wrong for each other, but I hope she’s out there...you know, vibing. Having a good life.”

“Mm,” Seto says, raising his glass. “A toast to your very nice ex, and well-wishes for her continued good vibes.”

You laugh at that and take a seat on the floor with your back pressed up against his. Then you down your drinks together, and sit quietly for a while.

“I asked Honda-kun about him,” you volunteer, to break the silence. “Atem.”

Seto doesn’t react at first. “Why?” he says finally.

You shrug. “I just, um...I wanted to know what he was like. As a person.”

“You could have asked me.”

“Really?” you say incredulously.

Seto considers briefly. “No,” he admits. “Probably not.”

“We don’t have to talk about him if you don’t want to,” you reassure him, reaching behind you to squeeze his hand. “It’s okay. Really.”

“But we _do_ ,” Seto says in frustration, “because you’ve been so goddamned brave talking about - everything, really - your mother and the orchestra and...I know it doesn’t come naturally to you, so I want to...”

“Those things don’t really compare,” you say. “I don’t think I’ve ever lost someone who was as significant to me as Atem is to you.”

Seto is silent for a moment. “Not even your mother?”

“No,” you say honestly. “And I think the same is true for you, isn’t it? Maybe in some ways, losing him hurt more than losing your parents.”

“Why do you say that?” Seto says slowly.

This had been the whole point of the last round of drinks - to loosen inhibitions and make it easier to actually talk - so you’re aware that you’re in difficult territory, but you plow ahead regardless. “Well, both you and me practically raised ourselves, right? For different reasons, but the outcome was the same. So by the time you met Atem, you were used to the idea that you would never need anyone again, because people were unreliable and there was no point getting invested. And then Atem came along - someone who genuinely cared about you on your own terms and was always pushing you to grow - he made you re-examine your worldview, and it was probably pretty earth-shattering for you.”

As you speak, Seto’s hand grips yours tighter and tighter, until it hurts a little. You don’t comment on it.

“How do you know that?” His voice is strained.

You shrug again. “Because that’s how I felt when I met you.”

Seto lets out a ragged breath, then is quiet for a long while. You wonder if you pushed too hard. You gently tilt your head back until it’s resting just between his shoulderblades. You can feel his breath, rising and falling.

“Atem was...different, than the rest of them,” Seto says at last. “He didn’t...he didn’t _ask_ me to be better, he just _expected_ it from me. Like he had no doubt what I was capable of and was just waiting for me to realize it. That’s why I always wanted to win against him. I wanted to show him that he wasn’t wrong about me, that I could be the person he thought I was.”

“But you were really young, and you didn’t know how to frame it other than through competition,” you posit.

Seto nods.

“And when he died...”

“He didn’t _die_ ,” Seto snaps suddenly.

You feel confused, and a little alarmed. “But...he did, didn’t he?” you say. “He went to the afterlife. The means were a little unconventional, but-”

“He didn’t die,” Seto insists. “Death doesn’t mean anything to someone like Atem. You could never understand. He came back once, so...he could...”

“Maybe he _could_ ,” you say gently, “but he won’t.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Seto says sharply. “If he wouldn’t stay for Yuugi, there’s no way he would-” he slams his free hand on the ground. “Why the fuck would he come and just - upend my entire fucking life? Why couldn’t he have _left me the hell alone?_ After he left, I was never the same. I...”

You shift a little bit, so that you can wrap your arms around Seto’s waist, pressing your face into his back. His breathing is uneven now, jagged and sharp, and he tenses up a little at your touch.

It’s okay. You know he just needs you to bear with him for a moment.

“Is that a bad thing?” you venture. “Not being the same?”

Seto slumps, relaxing back into your embrace. He slowly brings a hand up to cover his face.

“I didn’t...” Seto’s voice cracks. “I didn’t know what to do, after he left. After he...after he died. So I decided I would do anything to see him again.”

You try your hardest not to flinch. “Okay,” you whisper.

“Not like that,” Seto says immediately, and then pauses again. “Or...it might have been, on some level. I don’t know. I poured millions into excavations to find the Puzzle again and...created highly advanced technology to reassemble it...I wanted to bring him back, and if that failed, I was going to go and find him.”

It’s all you can do to keep your own breathing even, to keep holding on, but you do.

“The project took years of my life,” Seto continues. “At first I only worked on it every now and again, when things became too unbearable. And then I found myself working on it more and more. Mokuba was...beside himself. I wasn’t sleeping much, or eating.”

“What happened?” you ask, even though you’re not sure you want to hear the answer.

“It got to the point where I couldn’t...I wasn’t making any more progress. I thought maybe what I needed was a distraction, something to occupy my brain so that I could come back to the problem later refreshed. But I couldn’t focus on anything meaningful,” he says. “My mind was just racing, in circles, all the time. In the end the only thing that could hold my attention was...”

Seto’s shoulders start to shake. You think he might be crying, and then you realize he’s not - he’s laughing. “This...shitty fucking trash fire of an MMO...”

You start laughing too, partly from shock. “You’re _kidding_ ,” you gasp, trying to stifle your giggles.

“No,” Seto chuckles, and then he turns around and gathers you into his arms, embracing you tightly. “And then...” he takes a deep breath to try and stop his own laughter, to no avail. “I met this hulking idiot of a homicidal orc barbarian who just wanted to go around murdering low-level players...”

You both laugh until your stomachs hurt, and then you’re both laughing and crying and holding each other for dear life. Seto buries his face into your hair, and soon it’s damp with tears.

“When it was announced that the game’s servers were going down...I felt...terrified, to be honest,” Seto rasps, when the both of you are mostly over your hysterics. “So when you asked me to try this new game you’d heard was really good...”

“I completely panicked and asked if you wanted to try a random game that I’d only heard of that day,” you say, sniffling. Seto pulls you closer and brings a hand up to cup the back of your head.

“The more we played together, the less I felt like working on my project,” he admits. “It felt...less like it was consuming me, somehow. I never really formally cancelled it, I just started quietly slashing the budget and reallocating staff, but I always kept the file open, just in case...I did apologize to Mokuba. I promised him I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“Of course a part of you would never stop looking for Atem,” you reassure him, leaning your head against his. “If, um...if there was some way for me to see my mom one more time...to ask her...” you trail off, swallowing hard. “It’s only natural. After all, you love him.”

“I did,” Seto says, his voice breaking. “And I do.”

You hold him close. His shoulders are shaking again, but it’s not laughter this time.

“Does that bother you?” he says at last, so quiet it’s nearly a whisper.

“No,” you reply honestly. “Because I know you love me, too.”

“So fucking much,” Seto says, his voice rough with emotion. “More than you could ever understand.”

“You know, um, I’ve never told you this,” you say with a sniffle, “but...the day I learned that my mom died was...the worst day in my entire life. I was _so_ angry. I was angry that no one told me - angry that she didn’t even bother reaching out when she was sick - but I think mostly angry at myself, because I was the one who’d made it clear through my actions that I didn’t want to hear from her. I felt like I was the worst person alive. I basically just shut myself in my apartment for two weeks and didn’t talk to anyone. Except you.”

“Me?” Seto says, sounding surprised. “I don’t remember you telling me about anything like that.”

“I didn’t,” you shrug. “I just started this Civ game with you, and I picked Basil II to play as specifically because you hate him, and...relentlessly griefed you, starting wars left and right, doing everything I could to piss you off. But you didn’t get angry like you usually would. You just asked me what was going on, and I told you...”

“Oh,” Seto says. Recognition is dawning on his face. “You said you were going to quit violin.”

“Uh huh.” You nod. “And you told me...”

“Oh, god.” Seto puts a hand over his face and sighs.

“You told me to shut the fuck up, and that I wasn’t allowed to quit violin,” you finish, leaning your head on his shoulder. “And you also said that if I was having a bad day, you weren’t going to go easy on me. Because it would feel better in the end to beat you if you were giving it your all.”

“And then I completely _destroyed_ you,” Seto groans. “I’m so-”

“Don’t apologize,” you cut in. “I felt better after. Better than I’d felt years, actually. Because it was...I don’t know. I think it might have been the first time that I felt like someone really understood me. Actually, that might have been the day I fell in love with you, without even realizing it.”

“You are so fucking weird,” Seto says, kissing your temple, “and I love you so much.”

“Honda-kun says it’s a good thing we found each other, because we’re exactly the same brand of idiot,” you reply, smiling up at him, and then pulling him down to kiss you. He does, very gently, and it’s a moment before you pull apart.

“He’s right,” Seto says, cupping your cheek in his hand and pressing kisses all over your face - your cheekbones, your nose, the corner of your mouth. “Listen - I’m - I’m going to say an idiotic thing.”

“Okay,” you nod.

“Move in with me.”

You don’t even hesitate. “Okay.”

Seto pauses, his face an inch from yours. He looks surprised, and also endearingly nervous. “What? Just...okay?”

“Is it all right with Mokuba?” you wonder absently.

“It was his idea. So you’re not going to...?”

You shake your head. You can’t help it - a big, stupid, happy grin is taking over your face. “No. I’m agreeing with you, without putting up a fight. How’s that for a negotiation power move?”

Seto starts laughing again, loud and open. “That’s not negotiating, stupid,” he says, closing the distance and pressing his lips to yours. You laugh into the kiss, and after a moment he releases you.

“But the truth is,” he says quietly into your ear, “you never have to negotiate with me. I’ll give you anything you want.”

“Okay,” you bargain. “What if what I want is for you to be happy?”

“Done,” Seto murmurs, pulling you close into his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy MOTHER OF GOD on a BICYCLE, this chapter was a motherfucking BEAST to write. I re-wrote it like three times and ended up cutting about 3k words. I really, really, really hope I did it justice. 
> 
> ୧༼ಠ益ಠ༽୨
> 
> There's a lot of complicated emotions going on in this chapter that I hope I explained well enough. You love a lot of people in your life, in a lot of different ways, and none of those feelings invalidate or lessen feelings you have for other people; my kind of guiding principle for writing this was that quote, "grief is just love with nowhere to go." I kind of liked exploring Honda's perspective here, too, because it really emphasizes that Atem had this absolutely magnetic impact on _all_ of his friends just by virtue of being who he was. 
> 
> Oh god, you guys, next chapter is the last chapter (;;;*_*) Are we ready???
> 
> P.S. No music stuff in this chapter - just the Orchestra Squad - so here's a really fucking gorgeous rendition of [Chopin's Nocturne in E Flat Major](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_fsjNfffknA) on the guitar. Has a really nice bittersweet mood that I think suits this chapter well.
> 
> P.P.S. Catch me writing Shadi's weird orphan cult out of DSOD and just making it about Seto's grief, AS IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN.
> 
> Thank you all, so much, as always. Cannot believe you guys continue to stick with me chapter after chapter, and you're all consistently so funny and delightful and cool. Hope you've all had a restful weekend (*¯ ³¯*)♡


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